Story of her life
by iamhopeless.com
Summary: Series rewrite with a very BAMF fem!John. (I am awful at summaries and titles). It starts slow, but hang with me, Joan is going to save the day... at some point.
1. Chapter 1 - SiP - John

**A/N:** My only defense is that I really wanted to write this. It will be a very long story (I have a timeline going after season 4), with irregular updates because my inspiration comes on random times and for random parts of the story.

Anyway, John (or Joan, in this case) is my main character and main POV... until Sherlock comes to deduce stuff. I tried to adapt dialogues, but most of original lines are just too perfect, so there will be a lot of character development instead.

I've been reading in this fandom for years, so there might be some ideas that influenced my work without me noticing. I'll give credit whenever I manage to identify it, but please let me know if there is anything that bothers you.

I was sure there was much more to say about it, but I forgot. Sorry...

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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It always started in a white mist. Then she was running towards the fight. She never ran away from it, no, her team was there and she had to keep them safe, bring them home. Fire and blood, loud thumps of bodies hitting the dust, sharp chirps of splintered wood in the hot air. And Bill's voice calling her name in a blinding flash of phantom pain and numbing coldness.

She didn't remember waking up. The fight, the blood had been just there, at the tip of her fingers, she had to get to them, to help… and then she was behind grey walls, in a smothering silence of a sleepy dingy neighborhood, eyes burning with tears she didn't remember shedding.

How did this become her life?

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Joan H. Watson had always been the man of the house, the reliable one, the protector. Since high-school, she didn't bother to pretend to be anything else. She was herself, comfortable in her own skin and clothes, steady and strong. That's why she always presented herself as John. It always threw people off, but at least they didn't label her "a blond helpless girl" anymore. That's why it grated on her already shaky nerves to hear her psychotherapist address her by the given name:

"Joan, you're a soldier, and it's going take you a while to adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

Well, that didn't sound patronizing at all. Joan sighed internally. Civilian life of a discharged female soldier. Yeah, everyone already pictured her in a flower-pattern dress in a suburb, a suit-wearing faceless husband and one point eight kids. It was so… void of interest. Just like every other day since her release. There was nothing, nothing at all for her to live for. " **Nothing** happens to me."

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The pain in her leg was excruciating, more so by the fact that it shouldn't even be hurting. It hurt more than her shoulder, for Christ's sake! The blue cloudless sky was clearly mocking her as she hobbled through the crowd to Russel Square. The thought of returning to the bedsit and get some rest for the leg was always followed by the familiar tug of longing for the gun sitting in the desk drawer and its silent promises. But she couldn't go there. She was a soldier, and as a soldier she will fight the bleak future bestowed upon her by a bullet.

"John! John Watson!"

She blinked slowly at the round man beaming at her.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together." The memory of a much slimmer student handing around pints at the pub surfaced and brought a small smile. They had a tight little group, back then, and she had always felt at ease with them.

"Yes, sorry, Mike. Hello, hi."

"Yeah, I know. I got fat!"

"No." It didn't come out as convincing as she aimed for. The conversation went downhill from here anyway.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot." She really didn't intend to say it that bluntly, but an hour of the so-called therapy got her on edge. Mike's smile faded so quickly, she felt immediately sorry for him.

However, the man was made of sturdier stuff than most. He didn't try to change the subject, nor give her a one-over full of pity.

"Right. We really need to catch up. Wait here" – he nodded at the nearest bench – "I'll get us some coffee. Milk, no sugar?" It was surprising he still remembered.

The coffee, which was quite good for a street vendor, didn't help the soldier to relax. Words didn't come any easier than in Ella's cushy office. She could feel Mike glancing worriedly at her, but couldn't bring herself to talk about… before.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?" _Smooth, Jay_ mocked a little voice in her head and was choked mercilessly for its troubles. It did stir the conversation to nostalgic reminiscences that kept them away from the elephant in the room (or the park, in this case) for a couple of minutes. Until it came to bite them back with gusto.

"So what about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?" Mike asked guilelessly. She played along.

"Can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..." She cut herself off abruptly. The irritation from the last few weeks was bubbling under the surface, fueling the foul mood she was in since this morning. No need to subject the well-meaning erstwhile fellow-student to it. Coffee splashed on her thumb while her hand shook uncontrollably. Thankfully, it was already tepid, but it irked her even more. If Mike noticed, he didn't show it.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen!" Sure, Harry had been at the hospital, but it quickly devolved into meaningless bickering and old grudges coming back to play. These visits ended after a week. The only reminder of the sudden sibling-affection was the phone weighing down the pocket of her coat.

"I don't know…" Mike was honestly trying to help, but there wasn't much to be done. "Get a flatshare or something?" The idea shocked her out of the self-pitying session.

"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" _Let's be real here_ , agreed the little voice. The soft chuckle from Stamford indicated he thought otherwise. "What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

 _Oh?_ "Who was the first?" The cryptic smile she got in guise of an answer didn't help any.

"I can introduce you. Let me check if he's still there." She sat back in silence while Mike dialed someone – a certain Molly – and confirmed that **he** was still in the lab, whoever the mysterious potential flatmate might be. If he was hanging out with lab personnel at Bart's, because that's where they were heading now, he might be another doctor. Or a med student. God, if he was a student, she'd refuse right away. Parties soaked in bad alcohol stopped being fun when she hit the quarter-century mark.

They chatted politely about the weather and the latest rugby match while strolling through the halls of the hospital. Trying to casually walk but miserably failing in Joan's case. They stopped by the office with "Dr M. Stamford" etched on a little label on its door, a stack of ungraded papers in the middle of the desk and sticky memos all over the computer screen. Joan waited patiently by the door while her friend changed into his lab coat.


	2. Chapter 2 - SiP - The meeting

**Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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She remembered the lab they went to. It had been yellowed by years of smelly fumes, with suspicious spots on every wall and initials carved into desks by bored students. Apparently, the hospital got funds from somewhere and the sorry sight of old was no more.

"Well, a bit different from my day" she muttered under the breath, taking in the new equipment and an actually white ceiling.

"You have no idea" Mike chuckled.

A figure that had been hunched over a microscope in the shadows cut in: "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." The deep baritone was pleasant on the ears, Joan noticed absently, looking dispassionately at the pale man in a purple shirt. _Is it silk?_ She channeled out their conversation in favor of checking out the new toys her colleagues got to play with. State of the art microscopes, a slide projector, and was it a DNA sequencing machine? If only her tremor didn't put at risk any fragile samples she might handle, she would have applied for a lab job right away.

She caught the last bit of dialogue, and instantly reached in her own pocket for the infamous phone. "Here, use mine."

The man looked mildly surprised. "Oh." He gave her a very intent stare before standing up to take the offered device. Something flashed through his silver eyes, akin to vague curiosity. "Thank you" he said rather flatly.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson" Mike chirped in.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the mystery-man asked off-handedly, turning to catch a better light to type.

Joan frowned, rewinding the conversation in her mind, to check if she somehow blacked-out and missed a huge chunk of presentations. Nope, she didn't. "Sorry?" She felt more than she saw the amused smile on Stamford's face.

Purple-shirt, as she decided to call him for now, seemed unperturbed. "Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He even glanced up from his texting, with a politely raised eyebrow. _Oh, to hell with that. And with the smugness rolling off of Mike._

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?" The answer to that question was not meant to be, as a mousy woman came in with a coffee mug, eliciting a somewhat excited reaction from purple-shirt. The name-tag on her lab coat read 'Dr Hooper'.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." As Joan took back her phone, the man continued with a hint of genuine surprise in his voice. "What happened to the lipstick?" _Lipstick?_ At the same time, Joan's mind registered that it was the same Molly Stamford phoned back at the park.

"It wasn't working for me" Molly mumbled with an awkward smile. _Oh dear, she's crushing on him. That's cute._ It's been a long time since she had witnessed anything similar to a timid flirting. In a warzone, every emotion, every feeling is raw, even violent. Nobody has time to dance around each other, all hearts are worn on the sleeve, for friends, enemies and lovers alike to see and take. Everything made much more sense, days and nights had a unique flavor of life by just being so close to death. She wasn't used to veiled messages and subtle nuances of relationships anymore.

She must have missed something again, as the next question that registered with her was "How do you feel about violin?" Molly was already out of the lab, and Mike was doing a good impression of a cat that just ate the canary.

"Sorry, what?"

Purple-shirt was merrily typing away on a laptop as he elaborated "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" He looked intently at Joan, almost daring her to say 'yes'. When no reaction came from her, he went on "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." The smile that followed that statement could have been used as illustration for the entry 'false' in the dictionary. _Oh, he doesn't really want you as flatmate,_ the persistent little voice informed her. _But he can't turn you down in front of Mike if he wants to stay in his good graces and keep the access to the lab. Because hey, he's not a student, bossing around the coffee-doctor like this._ Her inner self definitely had a thing with nicknames. That aside, she was intrigued. How could the guy possibly know about her service? And why was he so unsympathetic? Oh well, some people had a problem with a woman bearing a man's name, doing a supposedly man's job and being quite content with it. However, she was definitely not in the mood to put up with it.

So she went with her usual technic of dealing with narrow-minded idiots. She played dumb. "Oh, you told him about me, Mike?"

"Not a word" he said. He looked all too happy to just watch the show.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" Her eyes didn't leave the lanky man for a second during that exchange.

"I did" purple-shirt informed the audience, while putting on his greatcoat. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

She couldn't argue with that. "How **did** you know about Afghanistan?" It was a question she wanted an answer for. Depending on it, she would relax or move out of the country. She had dealt with men who knew a bit too much about her. Nothing good happened… to them.

Something of her musings must have transpired on her face, as the man stopped in the middle of wrapping his scarf around his neck, staring at her like a hawk at its prey. It lasted a few seconds, then he seemed to come to a decision, which must have been different from his original intention. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together, we ought to be able to afford it." He went to the door, passing Joan in a flurry of wool. "We'll meet tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding croping the mortuary" he finished in a poor imitation of confidential whisper.

 _Now that was just grand._ "Is that it?" She turned fully to face him, standing at attention, her tone a study in skepticism. It got the desired attention. "We've only just met and we're gonna look at a flat?"

The confusion was quite clear at her opponent's face. "Problem?" _God, he really thought he was doing me a great favor by accepting to consider me as a flatmate, didn't he? And I'm not even talking about skipping some steps, here…_

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't where we're meeting, I don't even know your name." _Let's start by pointing out the obvious._

The brief silence and the small smile tugging at his lips didn't bode any good from her point of view. What followed was a mad-pace tirade, with an alarming amount of details about her recent history, which left Joan out of breath. _Wait, why I am breathless when he's been the one talking?!_

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" To be honest, she wasn't thinking much at the moment. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." The wink was so out of character, it almost sent Joan in a fit of laughter. "Afternoon."

Floored, she just mutely gasped at the closed door, trying to convey her state of mind to the other man in the room. "Yeah, he's always like that" Mike peeped cheerfully.

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She really should talk to Ella about memory problems. The trip back to the bedsit couldn't be more blurry in her mind. The meaning of a text sent by the now-named purple-shirt was lost on her too. " **If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH** _"_ What? A quick search on internet pegged the number as belonging to NSY Detective Inspector G. Lestrade. Well, good to know. Another search on Sherlock Holmes (she messed up the spelling a few times before getting there) led her to a rather stern-looking website, which kept her glued to the screen well past midnight.


	3. Chapter 3 - SiP - The interview

Ah, yes, it's not beta-read or brit-picked, by the way.

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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The next evening found Joan sitting in a very nice flat, in a very comfy chair, still reeling a little from the revelation that the nice old lady in a floral dress had hired someone to **ensure** the execution of her husband and that her own potential flatmate was friends with a **skull**. The man seemed somehow eager to please today, unsuccessfully trying to tidy up his own mess. She caught herself thinking that the chaos might be quite cozy, despite the landlady's subtle inquiries of their sleeping arrangements.

"I looked you up on the internet last night" she said to keep up the conversation.

"Anything interesting?" He didn't look back at her, seemingly going over some letters on the dining table.

"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." That got him to turn around, a proud grin on his face.

"What did you think?" Joan had a fleeting impression of a kid showing off his school project. She gave back a small smile.

"An unusual read, to say the least. There is so much detail, do you really keep all of this in mind?"

The grin widened instantly. "Even a small detail can reveal worlds of information. It is usually ignored, but for those who know where to look…" he let the sentence unfinished, giving a small wave with his hand that supposedly described something impressive. In his head, it probably did.

"That's what you did yesterday, right?" She had to be sure, after all. But fate had different plans.

Mrs Hudson came back from the kitchen, a newspaper in hand. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." A trickle of irritation ran through Joan's composure. She wanted answers, not more mysteries!

"Four" the distinctive baritone commented from the window. Lights flashed behind the glass, giving him a slightly eerie look. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" It felt good to know she wasn't the only one not following. The appearance of grey-haired DI Joan recognized from last's night wanderings on Google and the subsequent dialogue were just more puzzles on her growing list of urgent questions. Clearly something about a crime scene, what with forensics, but what did it have to do with the eccentric man she was now seriously considering living with?

An intention that wavered when the said man leapt in the air as soon as the front door slammed shut. "Oh brilliant! Thought it was gonna be a dull evening." _Ta for that, mate._ "Honestly, can't beat a really imaginative serial killer when there's nothing on the telly." _Wait, what?_

Apparently while Joan was processing the 'serial killer' part, Holmes got dressed and disappeared downstairs, giving off-handed instructions about dinner to his landlady. The doctor slowly blinked at the door, then at Mrs Hudson, desperately trying to make sense of this madness. "Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same." _Yeah, I can imagine._ "But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell." _What gives?_ "I'll make you that cuppa, dear. Rest your leg."

That was just too much. "DAMN MY LEG!" Judging by the gasp from the lovely lady, the shout was not only in her mind. "Sorry, I'm so sorry, ma'am. It's just sometimes this bloody thing…" This seemed to mollify her.

"I understand, dear, I've got a hip."

 _Let's get the most of it then_ , decided the little voice. "Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."

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She never had that tea, in the end. Whatever pushed her to accept the invitation from a madman ("Wanna see some more?"), it had her best interests at heart. After all, it was going along or going back to the silently chanting gun at the bedsit. Not much of a choice, really.

The ride was filled with awkward silence. She didn't dare to break it, for fear of losing the opportunity to learn more at a later date. Holmes noticed anyway. "Okay, you've got questions?" That, she had.

"Yeah. Who are you? What do you do?" She winced inwardly at her own bluntness.

"What do you think?" countered the man, unperturbed. _Good one. What did she think?_

"I'd say private detective…"

"But?"

"…but the police doesn't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." _Of course he did._

"What does that mean?"

Here it is again, a falsely bored look of a kid looking for approval. "It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs." _Oops. Maybe not the right thing to say._ The look he gave her could have pierced iron walls.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised." _Oh, goody, answers!_

"Yes, how **did** you know?"

"I didn't know, I **saw**." The following explanation was even more breath-taking than the tirade at Bart's. All this, just from the way she was standing and a phone? Seriously? Sherlock was talking at a speed rivaled only by hyper-caffeinated teenagers, and the way his eyes looked at something far away, remembering, tended to indicate it wasn't an elaborated setup. "The police don't consult amateurs" concluded the man-wonder at her side.

 _Wow. Where were you all my life, man?_ She blurted the first thing that came to mind. "That was awesome." The muffled snort from the other side of the cab made her glance at the man with concern. He actually looked pleasantly surprised.

"Do you think so?" _Yes, definitely a kid that lacks praise._

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary." She made her point sink with a sincere smile.

"That's not what people usually say." _Hmm?_

"What do people usually say?"

"'Piss off!'" It was her turn to snort derisively. Didn't she know how ignorant the mass tended to be?


	4. Chapter 4 - SiP - The crime scene

Thank you for all follows and reviews! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter too.

 **A/N:** I really try to skip dialogues that everyone knows, but some are unavoidable. Or I just can't help but include them. Anyway, it's a loooong chapter.

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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The genius – because he was a genius, she could see it now – did have an arrogant side. He was practically glowing with self-worth when she confirmed his deductions. Until **Harriet** came along. It was funny for a moment, but then she would have loved to know what she was supposed to do at a crime scene. And thinking about Harry and the way she wasted her life wasn't her favorite pass-time either.

"Hello, freak." And what the hell was **wrong** with this woman? Joan was quite sure her bewildered stare was more than insistent, but the officer didn't seem to notice.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock's tone was forcedly patient and polite.

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?" Joan's eyebrow began to twitch.

"I think he wants me to take a look."

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" What a prime demonstration of professionalism.

"Always, Sally." The self-proclaimed consulting detective ducked under the tape, an evil glint in his eyes. "I even know you didn't make it home last night." Sally sputtered indignantly. Didn't stop her from dropping the tape when Joan made to follow.

"Er… who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." It was said so casually, as if they had been actually working together for years already. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." The sarcasm was thick to cut with a knife. Joan had less bad blood with the guy who shot her than those two.

Donovan's reaction did it for her. "A colleague?! How did you get a colleague? What, did he follow you home?"

"No, actually, it's the opposite. I followed him to his place" she replied evenly, a politely raised eyebrow indicating how much she didn't care about anyone's opinion. _Deal with that now._

The reluctant sergeant paused, staring at her in disbelief, mostly because of the innuendo. She was still gaping like a fish out of water when Sherlock lifted the tape, gesturing Joan to come with him, an amused smile on his lips.

They were half-way to the door when a tall man in a blue coverall came out. "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock commented tersely. Joan started to feel a little surprised by the enmity between Holmes and members of the police force. Weren't they working together? Was it an entirely private matter? But no, the personnel milling around the place had been giving her companion only dark glances of dislike and fear since they arrived.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Oh, the patronizing speech. It still grated on her nerves. Clearly, on Sherlock's too.

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?" The subsequent dressing down had been a piece of art. If the man went around the town pulling bullies down a peg like this, she could acquire a taste of trailing behind him just to watch it. He was a prat, but a prat with class. Still smirking inwardly, Joan limped past the dumb-founded couple into the house and had a formless coverall pushed into her hands by a still smug-looking detective. "You need to wear one of these." Behind Sherlock, she could see the DI frowning.

"Who's this?"

Sherlock ignored him in favor of taking his gloves off. "She's with me" he offered eventually, after Joan started disengaging from her coat.

"But who is she?"

"I **said** she's with me" Holmes practically snarled in DI's general direction. Watson wondered for a minute if she should ask why everyone **but** the consultant was wearing those ugly blue things, but decided against it. She could do with less questions and more action.

Unfortunately, the action was held upstairs. Her leg was literally killing her by the time she climbed up behind the party. _Should just put a hole in it, so the pain would have an actual reason to be here_. Mentally committing murder of the person who had the gall to invent stairs, Joan followed both men into the brightly lit empty room, where a pink-clad woman laid dead. A vision of another woman, olive skin, dark hair, lying motionless and face down on scorched grass filled her mind the time of a breath. Then she was back in London again. She glanced around the room, trying to shake off the phantom heat of a far-away land. The wallpaper had once been flowery, but was now dirty and peeling all over. It clashed even more so with the vivid color of Jennifer Wilson's clothes. This building was decaying, but it would stand for years to come, while this woman, a spot of life, would never move again.

"Shut up." The baritone cut in her musings.

"I didn't say anything!" Lestrade, who had been addressed, protested.

"You were thinking. It's annoying." Joan shared a startled look with the DI. Apparently, her new flatmate was touchy about people having thoughts in his presence. _He should have mentioned that in place of violin._

Meanwhile, the man was circling the dead body, his hands gently running over the coat, eyes pausing over little details. Joan watched the silent dance, captivated. He finally straightened up with a satisfied smile on his chiseled face. _Chiseled, really? Where did that come from?_ "Got anything?" Lestrade asked grumpily.

"Not much." Oh, she could smell the grand revelation coming. His modus operandi reminded her of Agatha Christie's novels. A slow build-up for every secret to be brought to light.

"She's German. 'Rache', it's German for 'revenge'." This Anderson guy had no sense of self-preservation apparently. "She could be trying to tell us something…"

"Yes, thank you for your input." The face of the forensic when the door slammed inches from his nose must have been priceless.

"So she's German?" At least someone was trying to keep on track.

"Of course not." The detective sounded slightly affronted at the idea. "She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious." He punctuated his statement by pocketing his phone with unnecessarily flourish.

"Sorry, obvious?" There were limits to what she could guess.

"What about the message, though?" insisted the DI.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical professional." Joan itched to point out that judging by the content of his website, Sherlock must have followed at least three of advanced pathology and anatomy courses at uni, and thus didn't really need an unemployed surgeon to state a probable cause of death.

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside!" And there was that too.

"They won't work with me." _Oh, so he's not oblivious._ Joan settled to watch the fight of wills between the DI and the consultant. Their dynamic was certainly interesting to observe.

"I'm breaking every rule letting **you** in here!"

"Yes…" Sherlock hissed. "Because you need me."

The helpless stare Lestrade gave the younger man made her wonder if the grey in his hair was due to the natural aging process or the frequent contact with the genius. "Yes, I do. God help me."

"Doctor Watson." He actually startled her. _That won't do._ Out of courtesy, she looked at the DI for permission. It was his job after all, and he clearly wasn't delighted by the situation.

"Oh, do as he says, help yourself." He sounded even grumpier than before.

It took Joan some time to get to Sherlock's level beside the body. The man impatiently tapped his fingers on his knee while she was painfully rearranging her failing _idiotic_ limb. "Well?" He finally inquired after a few seconds.

"What am I doing here?" Joan whispered in reply. It was all well and dandy, but it was made abundantly clear that she was an alien in the midst of Yarders.

"Helping me make a point" Sherlock lowered his voice to match hers.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent!"

"Yeah, well, this is more fun." _Imp._ She was sure he caught the brief moment where her innate need for adventure took precedence over ethics, and he was smug about it.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead" she protested half-heartedly.

"Perfectly sound analysis, doctor, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." He was definitely laughing at her. With the renewed presence of the DI in the room, she couldn't complain anymore. So she mentally kicked her leg into cooperation, and leaned forward to do a cursory check of Jennifer Wilson.

"Yeah… Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure, possibly drugs."

"You know what it was." Sherlock commented from above, having stood up when she started the examination.

"Yes, judging by the remaining whiff of almond, I'd say some sort of cyanide, but the autopsy should tell you more. Her perfume is a bit pervasive, it can skew a field assessment." She missed the surprised glance from the consulting detective while struggling up. She didn't miss the world-weary sigh from Lesrtrade.

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said. I need anything you got."

That was his cue. The man started literally twirling around the body, talking in a ten-words-a-second way that made Joan dizzy. Judging by the DI's slightly blurry stare, he was having trouble following too.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

Lestrade latched on this one: "Suitcase?" He had a point. There were no suitcase in the room. Didn't seem to bother the genius however.

"Yes, suitcase. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're making that up…" She could understand the grey-haired man frustration, but having been subject to similar deductions half-an-hour before, Joan settled for simply listening. Holmes had a lot to say, and perhaps hadn't been given enough chances to do so freely.

"Her wedding ring, **look** at it." He sounded exasperated. "Ten years old at least. The rest of the jewelry had been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. It's not for her work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

He may be a mad genius, but he certainly managed to take her breath away every time he spoke. And all of her brain-to-mouth filters. "That's brilliant." This peep earned her a very surprised look from the man. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?" Lestrade prodded.

"It's obvious isn't it?" Sherlock drawled, a little distracted.

"It's not obvious to me" she offered.

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." _Here goes the arrogant prat again._ "Her coat. It's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He fished out his phone with the weather displayed for the country. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic!" She really couldn't stop herself.

Sherlock blushed slightly. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

 _Oops._ "Sorry. I'll shut up."

"No, it's… fine." Even he seemed bewildered by the admission.

Lestrade had a look of someone who just walked in a very awkward situation. "Why d'you keep saying suitcase?"

Sherlock happily leapt at the change in conversation. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade clarified.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German! **Of course** she was writing Rachel, no other word it could be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?"

The detective pointed to the body. "Back of the right leg, tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He actually squatted down to examine the leg more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There was no case." The DI sounded a bit too smug about it. Sherlock's inquisitive and quite intent glare made him elaborate. "There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase." Holmes almost bowled him over, rushing out of the room.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in the house?" Joan limped behind Lestrade to get a better view of the quickly fleeing consultant.

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade bellowed.

That made the madman slow down, but not much. "But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks… and?"

"It's murder, all of them! I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings, serial killings." The maniacal glint in his eyes was shining to the world to see. She could understand why the police force could be wary of him. "We've got a serial killer. I **love** those. There's always something to look forward to." He was muttering to himself now, but that didn't make the statement any less creepy. _I like this guy_ , Joan's inner voice informed her, solidifying the suspicion that her common sense had died along with her military career.

"Why are you saying that?" The DI surely was a tenacious one. They now had a prime view of the lanky man down the stairs, excited as a toddler under the Christmas tree.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." His voice dropped suddenly: "So the killer must have driven her here, forgot the case was in the car."

She quipped in just for the sake of consistency: "She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there."

That elicited a rather stern glare from downstairs. "No, she never got to the hotel, look at her hair! She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh." If he looked maniacal before, now he was downright scary, eyes wide, toothy grin and clapping hands. "Oh!"

"Sherlock?" Joan tried tentatively.

"What is it, what?!" Lestrade urged, leaning over the banister.

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Joan just realized that her companion was half-way down the stairs and apparently wasn't waiting for her to follow. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff, find out who her family and friends are. Find Rachel!" And he was gone.

"Of course, yeah, but what mistake?!" Lestrade yelled in his wake. Surprisingly, it brought the man back for a moment. He reappeared on the stairs, still grinning.

"PINK!"

And he was gone for good. Lestrade sighed, baffled, and turned back to his forensic team. "Let's get on with it."

Joan felt even more out of place than before, forgotten in the flurry of activity. She let escape her own heavy sigh and started the hellish descent downstairs. Of course, the mad genius didn't wait. He was too caught up in the moment.

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 **A/N:** I will keep the story from spiralling into obvious JohnLock, if only because it's not really the objective here, but I'm not above writing some scenes that leave place to interpretation. I think that Sherlock's and John's relationship (be it in canon or in my version) is way too complex to be defined clearly, and sometimes it's fun playing on this ambiguity. Thought that I should mention it now :)


	5. Chapter 5 - SiP - The mystery call

**Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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"But you're not his friend." Joan jerked back to stare incredulously at the officer. _Who does she think she is?_ "He doesn't have friends. So, who **are** you?" It was all she could do not to start yelling about a modicum of respect. That would have been counter-productive.

"I'm… I'm nobody. I just met him."

It seemed to suffice as the explanation to Sally Donovan. "Ok, bit of advice then: stay away from that guy." Even if she was trying to be helpful, it served just to irk Joan even further.

"Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it." _Well duh, it's his job. He has the right to enjoy it._ "He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what?" _No, please tell me, ô knowledgeable one._ Joan was letting Donovan talk it out, but it didn't stop the snarky part of her to comment. "One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there." _Tell me about prejudices and high expectations._

"Why would he do that?" she asked instead.

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored." _What does it make me then?_ Joan wanted to say, but the sergeant was already leaving, called by her superior. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!" _And why everyone tries to patronize the hell out of me?_

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The hunt for a cab had been unsurprisingly unfruitful. But once it became clear that not one damned driver would stop for her, Joan's mind switched to strange phones shrilly ringing at her passage. _Just when I was getting used to routine, mysteries keep coming_ , she smirked, pulling open the phone box and lifting the phone.

"Hello?"

A deep male voice, with a hint of an upper-class drawl, droned into her ear: "There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

"Isn't it rude to not greet your correspondent?" came the instinctive reply.

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?" continued the voice, unperturbed. _Ok, too many people seem to know me these days._

She glanced at the camera nevertheless. There was no harm to that. Yet. "Yeah, I see it."

"Watch."

Ensued a little power-play show with CCTV cameras that left Joan utterly unimpressed. The voice sounded especially smug when the third camera turned away. The spectacle was clearly meant to intimidate her ( _of course, the little wounded lady-doctor should drop in fear over such technological prowess_ ). Watson decided to play it snarky. "Are you threatening or recruiting me?"

A long pause followed her remark, and she felt that the reaction bewildered her mysterious caller. Finally, a black car stopped near the phone box, with an honest-to-god suit-clad driver getting out and opening a waiting door. "Get in the car, Doctor Watson" purred the voice.

"I don't do blind dates, mate" she informed him, while stifling a laugh. "But you intrigued me. See you soon." She didn't have anything better to do either way, and the car looked nice. Plus, she **needed** to see the face the mystery-man was making right now.

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The interior of the car was very nice, indeed. The gorgeous brunette in the back seat was thoroughly ignoring her, and Joan knew better than to try and fish for information. The whole set-up reeked of governmental involvement. She thought she even recognized the brand of suits this merry band of kidnappers was wearing. They didn't look aggressive though, it couldn't be very bad. And they clearly hadn't done detailed research on her, or the brunette would have her hand on a weapon constantly.

They were taking strange detours however, and the ride promised to be rather long. Joan tried to prod the waters, just to occupy herself: "Any point in asking where I'm going?"

The woman flashed her a fake smile. "None at all."

"Ok." The rebuttal didn't faze the soldier as much as it was intended to. She just fished out her own phone, and typed a quick text to an unregistered number: " **LO59SPD. Undetermined. Update in 2h.** "

This simple action seemed to concern her overseer, who peeled herself off the BlackBerry and drawled as neutrally as possible: "It would be preferable if you refrained from texting."

Joan returned her a false smile with vengeance. "Sorry, you didn't say anything about cutting all communication."

"I do now." _Getting nervous here._

"No problem." She had covered her bases already.


	6. Chapter 6 - SiP - The umbrella

**A/N:** Thank you so much for your reviews, follows and favs! Every time I get a notification, I grin like a loon at my screen. I think my colleagues are officially spooked now.

Sorry for the late update, but as I said in the beginning, there is no specific schedule.

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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The spooky warehouse smelt of emptiness and cold concrete. The suited man with an umbrella didn't appear too fazed about the low temperature and menacing echoes. While Joan limped towards him in as much a straight line as she could manage, he watched her down his nose. "Have a sit, Joan" he pointed to the torture device commonly known as a metallic chair.

Blatantly ignoring the suggestion, she calmly stated: "I've got a phone, you know. I know that getting the girl's attention could prove difficult, but you could just phone me. On my phone." She came to a stop, admiring the disconcerted grimace on the man's face. It looked faintly familiar.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." _Of course it's Sherlock's fault._ "Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't wanna sit down" she snapped back, mildly irritated.

The man eyed her with a hint of curiosity. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening." And he wasn't. She had stared down knifes and rifles pointed at her heart, done field surgery in a half-burnt building, danced with the devil (the one with bright green eyes and a penchant for womanizing), and talked her team out of an altercation with angry locals. A bureaucrat wasn't about to send her running for the hills.

Even more if the said bureaucrat clearly wasn't aware of his own predicament, as he chuckled, looking faintly amused. "Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

She chuckled darkly in return. "Who says it's not plain confidence?"

It made him pause. His gaze sharpened, taking in the smaller details of her. She kept her bearing lax and non-threatening, silently ruminating over the déjà-vu feeling of being subject of such intense scrutiny. The umbrella-man finally resumed the conversation, voice calm and bordering on bored, but with an undercurrent of steel and danger. "What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?" _That's it!_ The realization flashed in her mind like the metaphorical lightbulb. Now that she had made this assumption, it was easier to spot small details to corroborate her theory.

"I don't have one" she answered, laughing inside. "I barely know him. I met him yesterday."

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" _Is that supposed to rile me up?_

"Why, are you jealous?" she threw a pike of her own, rewarded by a sucking-a-lemon look on her opponent's face.

"Your attempts at sarcasm are highly inspired, I see" he commented.

"Doing my best here."

Her phone beeped loudly in the frozen space. Joan fished it out, checking absently the message: " **Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH** "

"I hope I'm not distracting you" said the umbrella-man almost petulantly.

"Not distracting me at all." She made a show of putting the phone back in the pocket it came from.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" _He doesn't lose sight of his target, huh._

"I could be wrong… but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be." _Promises, promises._

"It reaaaally couldn't." Her leg decided this was the moment to remind of its existence and twitched with phantom pain. Joan hid her wince while the man was busy ostensibly opening a notebook.

"If you **do** move into two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

 _This is priceless in so many ways._ "Why?" she managed to ask calmly.

"Because you're not a wealthy person."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable about."

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly."

Joan couldn't stop snorting in amusement. "That's nice of you."

The sarcasm went unnoticed this time. "But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship."

"You don't say." The strange dialogue was cut short by another text: " **If inconvenient, come anyway. SH** " Less than a day after meeting the man, and her evening was much more fun than the last few months combined. _Priceless_. Joan looked up from the phone to stare the mystery-umbrella fellow in the eyes. "No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother." _There are things that cannot be bought. He should try it too._

"You're very loyal, **very** quickly" came a dark laugh.

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

The man sighed, as if appalled at the ambient stupidity, and gestured absently to the notebook he was still holding. "Trust issues, it says here."

"What's that?" she frowned. Unfriendly conversations were one thing, but stalking and reading her therapist's notes were another level of creepy altogether. It put a dent in her unapparent good mood.

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Oh, what gave it away? Me moving in with him?" she grumbled, not showing her slight unease at the turn the conversation was taking.

Umbrella-man raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

 _That's it._ "Are we done?"

"You tell me" came the enigmatic reply. She stared blankly at him for a long moment. No, despite the amusing distraction to her evening routine, she didn't like the man. **At all**. With as much flourish as possible, Joan turned to walk away. But apparently, her kidnapper had more to say, since he didn't seem to take a hint.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

 _Oh, now he's done it._ The frustration of being continually underestimated and patronized over the months decided that enough was enough, and now was the right moment to strike back. Shoulders tense, Watson turned slowly back to the mystery-man, eyes narrowed in a silent challenge. "You presume an awful lot of things. Some of them are correct, I admit. But it would be better for your health if you stop trying to intimidate me." She was rewarded with two raised eyebrows. "I will move in with Sherlock Holmes, and he will probably become a good friend over time, because these things **take time** , and you could drop by for a tea and actually **talk to** _ **him**_ , if you're **sooo** worried about your brother."

He was looking rather disdainful during her little diatribe, and started to open his mouth to respond, but was left gaping at the end. Assuming they were siblings was a bit of a stretch, but it was a good guess, apparently. His fingers twitched around the umbrella handle. "Oh please, you have the same look when you examine people, or deduce them, was it? Wasn't that difficult to spot family traits after that." The grip relaxed slightly. "Now that we're all clear and good, have a nice evening, big brother. Next time, just phone me, alright?"

The mute scene, with Joan smirking at a slightly perturbed bureaucrat, was cut again by a trill of a text. " **Could be dangerous. SH** " she read while going back to the black car.

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 **A/N:** Yes,I imagine the logic leap Joan made might seem far-fetched, but she has a bit more observation skills than an average person. And I kinda like being mean to Mycroft...


	7. Chapter 7 - SiP - Impressions

**A/N:** Thank you again for your reviews, follows and favs :)

Holmes boys came out to play!

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know.

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Mycroft Holmes was rarely surprised, even less by people not involved in political games in any capacity. When Joan Watson appeared on the daily surveillance report as a potential flatmate to Sherlock Holmes, his team assembled an extensive dossier on her. The woman seemed to be a good medic and a good soldier. Diligent, middle-class background, well-liked, invalid, common and dull. Sherlock must be particularly stubborn this time to even consider this option. But then he took her to a crime scene, a first. Fortunately, Mycroft had been informed immediately and could arrange an improvised interrogation session. Or probing, as he preferred to refer to such endeavors.

The little phone conversation revealed that Joan Watson hid her inherent insecurities behind low-level sarcasm. Not so surprising. It would be easy enough to scare away this pest. Even if she didn't run away screaming after Sherlock undoubtedly done his bout of deductions. Screening his brother contacts could be such a time-consuming bother.

The wait was punctuated by his PA's updates on their 'customer'. Contrary to his expectations, the woman didn't manifest any anxiety or twitchy behavior in the car. She had started texting of all things, but was compliant with the request to stop. " **Mild and obedient, but she seems to have fun** " was the assessment Anthea sent before the car finally pulled in the warehouse.

Clearly, the mild and obedient part was a sham, as the good doctor blatantly ignored his direct orders and started with amused sarcasm, which was grating on his nerves. But Mycroft wasn't above elegantly pointing out his opponent's low level of intelligence. Then she smiled darkly in return: "Who says it's not plain confidence?"

The question was asked in such a calm and amused voice, that it elicited a small doubt. Mycroft assessed the medical officer attentively. Beyond small and obvious details telling all about her recent occupations and diet, he noted several matters of interest. Her posture was non-threatening, and her face betrayed no worry or anxiety. She was comfortable in a situation specifically designed to make her uneasy. Her commoner's humor could be, of course, attributed to the upbringing and army experience, but it could also be a sign of a person tired of being underestimated and just pushing all the buttons until being taken seriously. A person who craved conflict… No, not conflict, she would be more provoking if that was the case. Danger. He could threaten her all he wanted, she would just bask in the adrenaline and go with the flow. Interesting. And worrying. How did a person like this arrived into Sherlock's entourage?

Any further attempts to rile her up just ended in more sarcastic remarks from the target. It was mildly frustrating to see all tactics fail to elicit the expected reaction. The woman was equally unperturbed by everything, including threats, insults, bribery and false confidences (badly played, admittedly). He thought he was getting somewhere with therapist's notes, and pushed the advantage, but it came out as a bad decision.

The retreating doctor turned around, eyes flaring with tightly leashed anger. She launched a small emotionally charged speech, giving a threat of her own – _physical violence, ugh, how pedestrian_. But he saw that she was quite confident of being able to follow through with her threat if needed, despite the limp, the broken shoulder and the lack of any weapon. And she wasn't ignorant of two guns waiting patiently in the car either. Or the concealed blade in the umbrella, judging by a quick measuring glance she gave it. It showed an awareness of her surroundings, many attributed to seasoned war veterans, but not usually medical personnel.

Then this worryingly competent woman revealed his family ties with Sherlock, proving that observation capacities weren't limited to the Holmes bloodline. Her face, body and voice were very expressive, letting him read her opinions on the whole situation quite easily, but barely hinting at her level of threat, that appeared to be much higher than expected.

"Now that we're all clear and good, have a nice evening, big brother. Next time, just phone me, alright?"

But then again, she seemed already loyal to Sherlock, and it could be beneficial to have a genuine caretaker at his brother's side, someone who wouldn't flinch away from trouble or give in to bribes and threats. A watchdog.

The black car quietly drove away, leaving Mycroft Holmes to ponder over the meeting. Anthea updated him sporadically for the duration of the drive, giving more pertinent information about the doctor:

" **IT indicates your brother was the one texting.** "

" **Dropped by the bedsit. Returned with a concealed gun.** "

" **Complimented my suit before leaving at 221b Baker St.** "

Dr Watson had been summoned by Sherlock, obviously, for whatever triviality he was keeping himself busy with. His brother must have recognized the adrenaline-seeker the unassuming doctor was, and played on it fully, thus the gun. And despite the supposed pending danger, the kidnapping and the crime scene, the woman still felt comfortable enough to do small talk with Mycroft's employees. Nerves of steel. Remarkable.

The evening had been surprising in many ways and didn't go as expected. But the result was overall satisfactory.

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Sherlock had returned to Baker Street an hour after sprinting out the building in Lauriston gardens with his prize. It took him _twenty-nine minutes, fifteen seconds_ to identify the right bin in the right alley, an adequate result given the initial information. After rummaging through the hideously pink suitcase for _six minutes, twenty-four seconds_ , he came to the obvious conclusion that the phone was gone, most likely kept by the killer for whatever reason.

He plopped down the couch, absent-mindedly sticking nicotine patches on his bare arm. His mind was running over possible scenarios for the case, but part of him was analyzing his almost-flatmate.

The first impression was rather disappointing. _Dull. Easily intimidated and manipulated. Struggling to keep up with her own subconsciousness. Could be acceptable as a silent, non-bothering flatmate who would pay her rent and not interfere._ He couldn't help his quip about the last place of deployment, though, mentally steadying himself for fear and disgust that were sure to come. And then she just insisted on an explanation, and he had to give it, right? There was no fear in her eyes. She was guarded, yes, but not particularly distressed or confused, pointing out that for a flatshare interview, he could at least give some basic information before running off. _Practical_.

The visit to 221 had been enlightening. Joan ( _or John as she seemed to refer to herself_ ) was within socially acceptable behavior, of course ( _dull_ ), polite and covertly amused. _**Amused.**_ That was unexpected. He had started to reconsider his initial assessment.

She had done basic research on him, even. Wasn't overly bothered by his eclectic choices in decoration. Paid attention to the surroundings ("Is that a skull?"). He had been almost distracted by the new case ( _finally!_ ), but the angry outburst in the living room ("DAMN MY LEG") made him turn back. Someone so eager to be of use couldn't be left behind, after all.

The file he created for Joan Watson in his head burst into flames in the cab ("That was awesome."). He still wasn't sure how he felt about the new filing cabinet he put in place for her, but he had to admit that she was not dull. Or easily intimidated, the comment to Donovan was proof enough of this, if he had any doubts lingering. The memory of Sally's face alone made him chuckle.

So - reliable, aware of her own short-comings, has a dry humor, eager for action. Not dull.

And he really needed a phone number that wasn't hanging on his website to continue the investigation.

The first text went unanswered. He remembered that he **did** leave her at a crime scene with unfriendly Yarders. Wouldn't hold it against him for long, but could be angry right now. The second text went with no reaction too. He needed something to ensure that Watson came to the flat. _Eager for action._ " **Could be dangerous.** "

Now he all he had to do was wait.


	8. Chapter 8 - SiP - The case

**A/N:** Thank you for your follows and favs :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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Joan sent off a quick follow-up text (" **False alarm. Nothing to report.** ") to the unregistered number before knocking at the 221 door. She was gently bustled upstairs by the landlady, who seemed really fond of her tenant. She didn't however expect to come upon her potential flatmate, laying on the couch and exhaling loudly with eyes closed. Several reasons for this peculiar behavior flashed in her head, all rather inappropriate. _What the…_ "What are you doing?" she settled on asking the safe question.

"Nicotine patch. Helps me think" came the very logical explanation. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

She wanted to point out that nicotine addiction wasn't known to enhance brain capacities, but chose a simpler counter instead: "Good news for breathing."

"Oh breathing… breathing is boring." He shifted his arms, and three patches came into view. Joan, who had been on her way to the window, stopped short.

"Is that three patches?" she asked unbelievingly. _How did this man still not poison himself?_

"It's a three-patch problem."

 _Oh, really. We rank problems by our need for a cigarette now._ She glanced at the window again, wondering if the black car was still hovering around. Then remembered that Sherlock had practically coaxed her into coming with promises of danger. Which was nowhere to be seen, unless he considered his imminent nicotine poisoning a threat (and he clearly didn't). "Well?" Brooding silence. "You asked me to come?" she prodded. "I'm assuming it's important."

The man had the grace to frown in his meditation, but stayed otherwise unmoved. "Oh yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

… _now I can see why that DI was edgy._ "My phone?"

"Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized, it's on the website." _He probably expects me to say 'Oh, then it's alright'._

"You made me come from the other side of London to borrow my phone?"

"Mrs Hudson didn't hear me when I shouted."

 _Stay calm, Watson._ "Here" she thrust the gadget in the awaiting hand, and limped to the window, absently wondering where the brotherly surveillance would be stationed. "What's this about then, the case?"

"Her case" breathed the impossible man who still didn't do anything with her phone yet.

" **Her** case?" she asked, slightly confused – what could be so particular about this murder case?

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously" came the explanation from the couch. "The murder took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"Oook. So?"

Sherlock muttered to himself: "It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it." And held out the phone to her. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text." _I'm even starting to sympathize with the big brother. He must be worried sick, this man makes you want to punch him every five minutes._ She snatched the phone back in silence, but didn't move towards the desk, watching the street intently. Would resorting to violence be worth it ? She wasn't overly worried about repercussions, and part of her just wanted to make the umbrella-Holmes squirm.

"What's wrong?" It appears her musings were misinterpreted by the resident genius.

"Just met a friend of yours" she answered evenly.

"A **friend**?" And wasn't it sad to be so confused about it.

"An enemy" she amended, after a brief consideration of what transpired during that particular meeting.

"Oh" Sherlock relaxed. "Which one?" he asked curiously.

"The tall one with an umbrella." She wasn't about to let the other shoe drop so easily.

The detective glowered at her from the couch with evident suspicion. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

 _Almost forgot about this one bit._ "Yes."

The gaze intensity rocketed up. "Did you take it?"

"No" she answered honestly. _Was it a common occurrence?_

"Pity" Sherlock looked away, sagging back on the pillow. "We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"I'd rather your brother stop trying to bribe me in the future." That earned her full attention. Sherlock sat up abruptly, piercing her with a calculating stare. She replied with barely hidden amusement at the situation. "It's not that hard to notice, you know. You have the same glare." He continued to stare, maybe with a hint of genuine surprise this time. "Honest" she added as an afterthought. The stare-down continued.

Sherlock looked like he came to a temporary conclusion, as he nodded and his posture relaxed slightly. And he stopped dissecting her with his eyes. "On my desk, the number" he commanded, maybe a little more coldly than before.

Rolling her eyes, Joan hobbled to the crowded desk, picking the baggage label for one 'Jennifer Wilson' and typing the number with barely a blink. "Why am I texting the dead woman's number again?" she asked at large, not really expecting an answer at this point.

"Not important." _Who would have guessed._ "Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Ye… hang on!" _Impatient._ She managed to get to the texting screen, and looked up expectantly.

"These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

Her typing skills had never been the best, but she got distracted by the message itself. "You blacked out?" _Why didn't I notice? That could be serious, too._

"What?" Sherlock looked mildly surprised by the concern. "No. No!" he added, finally seeing the misunderstanding. "Type and send it. Quickly" he ordered while walking over the coffee table and disappearing in the kitchen. John felt her eyebrow twitch, but finished the text, only to look up to the pink suitcase open on a chair before her.

"That's… the pink lady's case" she stated dumbly. "That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously" Sherlock commented, not tearing his eyes away from its contents. One part of John (the one that appreciated nail polish and make-up from time to time) wanted to scream bloody murder. The other (the one with a syringe and a gun) was debating if her senses had dulled to the point of not recognizing a killer or whether the man was brilliant enough to find a crucial piece of evidence in record time. Apparently, it took too long to decide. "Oh, perhaps I should mention: **I** didn't kill her" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes in irritation.

"I never said you did" she quipped.

"Why not?" now he almost sounded offended. "Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption." _Well, can't say I didn't consider it._

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

The smirk was an epitome of disenchantment. "Now and then, yes." _Lovely,_ she thought, plopping into the chair in front of the man, who was currently perched in his like some sort of overgrown vulture.

"How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?" She tried to communicate that she wasn't suspecting him and would just like to understand.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely" he took a small breath at his point only. "- so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake." He gave her a little false smile full of smugness. "I checked every back street wide enough for a car, five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed." He gestured at the open case between them. "Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

Joan felt her eyes widen as the story went. _This man. Just wow. Wow._ "Pink" she managed weakly. "You got **all** that because you realized the case would be pink?"

"Well, it **had** to be pink, obviously" replied the total alien in front of her.

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot" came the very unhelpful comment. At the silent not-really-a-glare, he waved her off: "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is."

"Can't argue with that" she huffed quietly, but he obviously heard as a fleeting smile curved his mouth.

"Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case?" She pushed some clothes around. "How could I?"

The man looked exasperated: "Her **phone**. There was no phone on the body, no phone in the case. Where is it?"

"Left it at home?" she suggested without much conviction.

"She has a string of lovers and is careful about it. She **never** leaves her phone at home." He unfolded himself from his perching position to sit properly in the chair. _Too much energy to burn_ , supplied the medic part of her mind.

"And you don't believe it is lost either" she stated. Another smile flickered on Sherlock's face. Apparently, she had said something mildly intelligent.

"One way or another, it is highly likely that the murderer has her phone" he confirmed.

"Then why did we just text it?!" Then her phone rang. With a withheld number. "You gotta be kidding…" she exhaled.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer…" he closed the pink suitcase with relish when the phone stopped ringing abruptly. ".. would panic."

Joan continued to stare at her phone in disbelief ( _a serial killer just called my number_ ), while Sherlock was getting dressed for an outing. _Wait, a serial killer?!_ "Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"Then why are you talking to **me**?" _Because I wouldn't be my first choice either._

The face Sherlock made at the question was funny in its falsity. "Mrs Hudson took my skull."

"So, I'm basically filling in for Yorick?" _That's a rather unique job-title, skull replacement. Wonder if I should put it on my resumé._

"Relax, you're doing fine" he 'reassured' her. "How did you know his name?"

"Do you know any other names for a skull?"

"I suppose not. Well?"

Joan was finally distracted from her skull-related thoughts. "Well what?"

"You could just sit there and watch telly…"

"You want me to come with you?" She sounded as disbelieving as she felt. _He doesn't even like me. He doesn't like anybody for that matter, though._

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk around. The skull just attracts attention, so…" _Gosh, he's such an overgrown kid._ She gave him a small smile, but didn't move from the comfortable chair. "Problem?"

"I can see why the police is wary of you. You really enjoy it."

"And I said 'danger', and her you are" he countered, disappearing behind the door with flourish.

 _I can't win this round, can I._ "Dammit!"


	9. Chapter 9 - SiP - The sociopath

Thank you for your follows & favs!

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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The restaurant was nice. Sherlock seemed relatively at ease inside, and the friendly attitude of the personnel was a pleasant change from the cold wariness of Yarders. Even if she could have done without being classified as Holmes' date with no chance of appeal. But the candle was there, as well as the spaghetti dish, so she resigned to go along with the flow. Sherlock was pointedly not eating, and barely tearing his eyes away from the building across the street.

"Not hungry then?"

"The brain's what counts. Everything else is transport."

"Ever heard of maintenance?" Her quip was thoroughly ignored. "So, have your brother always been a kidnapper or is it a side-hobby?"

Sherlock gave her a guarded glance before answering: "He likes to meddle."

"Sorry, but he's a prat" John declared between two bites, earning an affirmative hum from the detective. "Does he do this to everybody? I imagine how well it went with your girlfriend."

"The problem hadn't occurred."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" _That would let her man share a flat with another woman. Right. Nice reasoning here, Watson._

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

Another bite. _Wait a…_ "Oh right. Do you have a boyfriend?" Sherlock finally looked away from the window. "Which is fine, by the way."

"I **know** it's fine." He sounded vaguely defensive.

"So, a boyfriend then?"

"No."

"Right. Ok." _Harry won't let me hear the end of it. Me, moving in with an unattached male. I can just hear it: 'Oh, Joan, you could at least get a date first!'. Christ, what am I doing?_

The conversation withered and died a painful death after this, until a black cab attracted Sherlock's attention about fifteen minutes later. "Look across the street. Taxi. Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out." John looked intently, trying to memorize the smeared silhouette of the passenger and the cab number. "Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. **Is** it clever? **Why** is it clever?" After a couple of seconds, he realized something Joan wasn't privy to. "Don't stare."

" **You** 're staring!"

"We can't **both** stare."

Sherlock rushed outside. He was quicker than her on the uptake, but she felt even strongly that the man couldn't be left alone when the git missed to be run over by a car. Then he took off, pushing people, leaping from roofs and urging her to follow. And she ran in his wake, lungs burning, feeling absolutely alive. City lights, traffic noise, rapid thumps of their steps on the pavement, all merged into one ecstatic feeling of _**action**_.

They ended up chasing just a normal cab, then actually running away from the police ("Welcome to London"). John was out of breath but giddy with happiness. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done" she breathed out, while leaning against the wall in 221 hallway, Sherlock wheezing a little by her side.

"You invaded Afghanistan" he pointed out between inhales.

"That wasn't just me" she protested weakly, while failing to suppress a giggle. Sherlock looked at her amusedly, and chuckled along. She thought absently that it was the sincerest he'd been with her since their meeting in the lab.

"Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" she asked when they calmed down a little.

"Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So, what are we doing here?"

The look in his eyes was one part smugness and three parts mischief. "Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point."

"What point?" she inquired tentatively, not quite sure she wanted to know, but already trusting her new friend.

He shouted away in response: "Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson **will** take the room upstairs!"

"Says who?" _I will, but hey, I should be the one to decide._

"Says the man at the door" he nodded at the exact moment someone knocked.

Angelo, the candle-lighting restaurant owner, was on the other side, presenting her with her cane. _Her_ _ **cane**_. "Sherlock texted me" he explained. "He said you forgot this." John just stared in surprise, hands reaching automatically to take it.

"Ah." From the hallway, Sherlock grinned happily at her. "Thank you" she said, not sure to which one of them. "Thank you." She came back in, clutching the cane in both hands, staring in awed bewilderment at Sherlock, who looked quite proud of himself. The perfect moment was ruined by Mrs Hudson emerging from her own apartment, visibly upset.

"Sherlock, what have you done?"

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Joan was still reeling from the series of shocks, and feeling quite uncredulous at the direction her evening had taken. She was supposed to look at a flat. Instead she went to a crime scene, met an epitome of mysterious big brother, had excellent (but unfinished) dinner with an arguably good company, chased a bloody cab through London, stumbled upon an improvised drug bust slash search for evidence slash bullying in her living room, and now her flatmate was all but admitting having been using. _Dammit,_ _too much drama for one night._

The fact that the brilliant, _oh so brilliant_ , Sherlock Holmes had been a junkie disturbed her to the point where she missed half of the conversation. Somehow the Yard was playing nice again, even if Anderson was still being a bully. Sherlock kept on being completely oblivious of the socially accepted behavior, which clearly grated on everyone's nerves, except surprisingly hers. There was no malice in Sherlock's "Excellent!" at the announcement of someone's death. It was professional excitement, joy for an interesting turn in the story. The man had mastered the art of being detached from the emotional side of a case, _or maybe he was a natural_ , and Joan was very perplexed by Yarders' attitude towards it. _Oh well, haters gonna hate…_

The brainstorming was at a still-point, everyone following Sherlock's nervous pacing without contributing to the process. Knowing full well that he'd shoot her ideas down in a second, she tried to at least manifest some brain activity: "You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Maybe he… I don't know, talk to them? Maybe he used Rachel's death somehow."

Sherlock stopped and glared at her. "Yeah, but that was **ages** ago. Why would she still be upset?" _Oh boy._ The silence was thick enough to cut with a knife. Even the consulting genius seemed to notice the enormity of what he just said. "Not good?" he checked a little awkwardly with her.

"Bit not good, yeah" she replied softly, deciding to ignore the rest of the room for now.

Luckily, Holmes wasn't one to be embarrassed, or at least not for long. He shuffled closer to Joan, eyes intent. Apparently, she was doing well as a sounding board. "Yeah, but if you were dying… if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

 _The taste of iron and sand invaded her month, shouts and cries pounding in her head like hammers._ "Please, God let me live" she deadpanned.

"Oh, use your imagination!" he exclaimed immediately.

She was too busy trying to chase away the sticky heat and the sand gritting on her teeth, to be gentle. "I don't have to." He must have seen something on her face, because there was no scorching riposte, just a couple owlish blinks and a fleeting apologetic expression on his face. Leaving Joan to compose herself, he tore into Yarders, voicing his thought process to everyone in hearing range.

The atmosphere was reaching its boiling point when he found the answer. Between quips and jabs from Anderson, and Mrs Hudson unrelenting pestering about the unwanted taxi, they managed to pinpoint the location of the phone, and were unconvincingly searching for it in the flat, with Sherlock just staying still in the middle of the room, probably reassessing his understanding of the universe or something. She tried to pull him out of the daze, but his response was automatic. He wasn't listening. Then he went out of the door, got into a cab and left her there. Again.


	10. Chapter 10 - SiP - The cabbie

**A/N:** Two chapters posted in a row, since they are shorter than previous ones.

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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The case was shaping out to be quite interesting, with an added bonus of having opportunity to observe Joan Watson in high-stress situations. He had to say, she was doing admirably well, even coming to his defense without knowing his history with drugs. _Touching._ He also filed away the information about her near-death experience for later examination. For now, the case had priority.

And then the killer was there, the **cabbie** , tempting him with answers, with challenge. Of course, he went along. How could he not?

The setting was a little dull, but you can't always get high-end locations for a final stand-off. The killer's game was unfolding. Frequent mentions of a fan were mildly irritating, but the thrill, the adrenaline, the confirmation of his theories, all of it was worth it. Sherlock loved these moments, where he could pull on a thread of details and unravel the plot, and the person in front of him, to the very core. The silky touch of a mystery, of a puzzle… it was dazzling. It made him feel alive. _There_. A small flame burst from the fake gun, and suddenly the puzzle clicked together, solved. There was nothing more for him to learn about this case.

"Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." He needed to eat something, now that the case was closed.

"Did you figure it out?" The question stopped him in his tracks. "Which one's the good bottle?" _Here it is again._ The remaining challenge.

"Of course." He had never been able to resist. "Child's play." On some level he knew that he shouldn't play along now. The killer was desperate to score points, this risk was unnecessary. But…

"Come on, play the game!" After all, why shouldn't he? He chose the right pill. _There was no risk, right?_ The cabbie's voice was enthralling, trapping him inside the game, inside his own ego. "You're not bored now, are you?" Tangles of grey and dull cowered in the corner of his mind, always ready to take over. But at that moment, the world came into sharp focus, full of color, excitement burning through his veins, bringing more relief than heroin ever had. "Innit good?" _Yes, it is._

BANG.

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She saw the cabbie fall. It wasn't an instant kill, but she wasn't holding a sniper rifle either. Dropping to her knees immediately, to avoid being seen by the hawk-eyed detective, she crawled to the door, cursing the heavy vest she was wearing, and ran to the nearest bathroom to wash away powder burns. She managed to find the back entrance, avoiding the swarm of patrol cars that were sure to come over any minute now, and walked at a brisk pace through back alleys, putting some distance between the shooting sight and herself.

The adrenaline rush was over for now, and her breathing came in small gasps. It had been awhile since she took a life.

Images invaded her mind. Sand, sun, gunfire, smiles, blood, beer, explosions, night sky full of stars, silver and golden… Everything tangled together in a mad kaleidoscope. Joan crouched against a brick wall, pressing both hands against her temples to reign in the onslaught. It made her a little nauseous. It was nothing new. _Breathe, Jay. In and out. In and out. London, remember? In and out._

Slowly, the flashback faded away. It was rather lucky than she collapsed in a non-frequented alley, or else some worried civilian would have tried to help and made it worse. She wiped the sweat that gathered on her brow with the back of her hand. Now that she felt better, if a bit shaky, she was glad to have that winter vest on. Wouldn't do much good to catch a cold.

Contrary to her therapist's belief, she wasn't traumatized by the violence of the war zone. It was the loss that shattered her.

Back there, she grew used to injure and kill in defense, even if it wasn't a common occurrence. Doing it again after a long period of living as a civilian brought back the guilt and the feeling of failure. There were people who had relied on her, who counted on her to protect and save them, and she just got herself shot and left them alone. Joan knew that it would take time to heal. She just didn't allow herself to take it.

Shaking off the rest of her weakness, she got up, and meandered to the main street. Blue lights were flashing in the distance. The cavalry had arrived. She started walking towards them.


	11. Chapter 11 - SiP - The shooter

**Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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Sherlock let himself be guided to the ambulance, where a paramedic examined him and confirmed the absence of injuries. Usually, he would have been fighting all the way and verbally decimating pesky medics, but his mind was too occupied with processing the final act that took place. The serial killer getting killed. That was unexpected and unexpectedly delightful. Then, he even managed to get a name to put on the mysterious fan, and a big part of his thought process was busy filing through his database to identify any mentions of " _Moriarty_ " in the past.

The sudden presence of an orange blanket on his shoulders distracted him from this important task. "Why have I got this blanket?" he asked no one in particular. "They keep putting this blanket on me" he addressed Lestrade who came over.

"Yeah, it's for shock" the DI replied unhelpfully.

"I'm not in shock!"

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs." Sherlock looked up sharply, ready to defend himself teeth and claws, but the friendly grin on Lestrade's face requalified the comment into light teasing. _Human interactions. Tedious._

"So, the shooter" he deliberately changed the subject. "No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here" the DI sighed. "But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but… got nothing to go on." It sounded like an invitation. He was damn well going to take it.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"Gimme."

 _Evidence:_ _Bullet. Estimating caliber from observed impact. Estimating distance from observed fire point._ "The bullet the just dug out of the wall is from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon? That's a crack shot you're looking for." _Fact_ _: the shot would have been impossible for an untrained individual. It was obviously not a lucky shot._ "Not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence." _Fact:_ _Jeff Hope could have been shot at other points in time, where the angle was much better._ "He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though," _I wasn't_ "so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with history of military service…" He looked around, estimating if any of Yarders would fit the profile. Joan Watson was hovering nonchalantly behind yellow tape. "…and nerves of steel…" _Fact:_ _Joan Watson was a soldier._ _Fact_ _: Joan Watson could have traced the phone to this place._ Their eyes met for a moment, then she looked away, appearing like an incarnation of pure innocence. _Fact:_ _Joan Watson had just killed a man to save Sherlock's life._ "Actually, do you know what?" he said, not tearing his eyes away from his new puzzle. "Ignore me."

"Sorry, what?"

"Ignore all of that" he ordered before grasping for a reason to such a turn-around. "It's just the… the shock talking." It was time for a strategic retreat, but Lestrade decided to manifest his tenacity at the most inconvenient moment.

"Where are you going?"

"I just need to talk about the… the rent."

The DI frowned at the second time Holmes searched for words. In five years of bumpy cooperation, he knew that Sherlock never stumbled in his speech, unless there was something going on. "But I've still got questions for you."

 _Time to play the emotional card then._ "Oh what **now**? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" Finally that thing was useful. " **And** I just caught you a serial killer…" he reminded the audience, then added sheepishly: "…more or less."

The look on Lestrade's face was partly calculating, slightly worried, but mostly thoughtful. "Ok" he drawled. "We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go." _Finally!_

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Joan watched Holmes coming over with growing dread. He obviously figured it out. She was just surprised they weren't hand-cuffing her already. When the tall man towered over her with an unreadable expression, she started to babble, looking everywhere but at him: "Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

"Good shot" Sherlock said softly, making her freeze for a millisecond.

 _Better play dumb_ , advised her inner voice. "Yes, yes, must have been, through that window."

"Well, **you** 'd know." The emphasis on the 'you' didn't escape her. But clearly, for whatever reason, Sherlock wasn't denouncing her to the police, and she finally looked at him properly. He seemed torn between concern and excitement, though most people wouldn't have noticed that. "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." She started to have doubts about the non-denouncing part, because to her ears, he talked loud enough to alert everyone in vicinity. "Are you alright?"

 _Huh?_ "Yes, of course I'm alright" she protested, hoping there was no evidence left of her going through a minor flashback.

"Well, you have just killed a man…"

"Yes, I…" she trailed off, realizing how it would sound. "That's true, innit?" She allowed herself a small smile to diffuse the tension. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

There was a fleeting moment where Sherlock seemed to scan her with an x-ray, then… "No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

She pushed her advantage. "And frankly a bloody awful cabbie." And here it was again, the deep chuckle, real, human and warm.


	12. Chapter 12 - SiP - The flatmate

Thank you for your review, follows and favs! :)

Two smaller chapters in a row again.

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

 _ **linebreak linebreak linebreak linebreak linebreak**_

The ex-soldier had made him laugh, genuinely laugh, for the second time in a day. It had been years since anyone achieved this feat, and was proof enough that Joan would be a suitable flatmate for him. Her shooting skills and medical expertise were a mere bonus to this. He started to make his way towards the main street, sure that his new mystery would follow. "That's true" he answered her earlier quip, for once quite eager to simply banter with someone. "He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took to get us here!" Watson couldn't repress a giggle at this, a sound Sherlock promptly catalogued as _nice_ , and it was in such contrast with her 'appropriate' exterior that he couldn't suppress an amused snort in return.

"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene!"

"Don't blame me, you're the one who shot him." While Joan was making fake excuses to the passing Donovan, who wore her usual I'm-too-busy-for-this expression, Sherlock took these seconds to compile an action plan.

 _Fact:_ _Joan was good company to him._

 _Fact:_ _Joan seemed to appreciate his company too._

 _Suggested course of action:_ _keep the flatmate arrangement active._ _ **Confirmed.**_

 _Identifying possible throwbacks._

 _Fact:_ _John didn't have time to observe him in his usual setting, without a case._

 _Estimating negative impact on the relationship. High risk detected, implementing countermeasures._

 _Assumption A:_ _establishing positive impressions earlier on will prevent the point of non-return._

He glanced quickly at the woman besides him. She was looking at him with a slightly crooked smile and a knowing glint in her eyes. "You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"

 _Fact:_ _he had put himself in immediate danger._ _Fact:_ _doctors value people's life._ _Fact:_ _soldiers protect people's life._

 _Assumption B:_ _John Watson doesn't endorse this particular decision of his._

 _Suggested course of action:_ _Deny._

"Course not. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No, you didn't." _**Action failure**_ _. Identifying alternative strategies._ "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?" he asked on auto-pilot.

 _Suggested cou…_ "Because you're an idiot." There was no judgement or disapproval in her voice. She was smiling openly, but not in scorn. It was fond. Of him. He felt his lips stretch in a smile in return. _Imminent system overload. Engage safety protocols. Channeling thought process to ancillary paths._

 _Fact:_ _he was going to keep her._ _Fact:_ _John hadn't finished her dinner at Angelo's._ _Fact:_ _People feel better after a meal._ _Suggested course of action:_ _Feed her._ "Dinner?"

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They had almost made it to the other side of the security perimeter, when an already familiar black car pulled over, making them both sigh in tired resignation. Sherlock took off with angry strides to meet his meddling brother, Joan following at a more sedated pace. Mycroft emerged from the back seat with an attitude to match royals.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited… though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock hissed in response.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your **concern**." He spat the last word like poison.

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!"

A barely muffled snort interrupted their quarrelling routine. With identical raised eyebrows, Holmes brothers looked at the disturbance, in person of one very amused Joan Watson. She smiled back innocently. "Oh, please continue, I'll just grab some popcorn." Holmeses huffed in unison, affronted, which made Sherlock glare heatedly at his sibling for daring to imitate him. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"My offer still stands, Doctor Watson."

"Are you seriously trying to recruit me to spy on your brother in front of him?" she snapped, still with a pleasant smile frozen on her face.

"I do need all help I can get to watch over him."

Joan nodded silently, not sure if she was agreeing with the oldest brother or just expressing her dismay at the siblings' relationship. Deciding that it didn't matter anyway, she turned to Sherlock. "So, dim sum?"

Sherlock, who was reeling from Mycroft's audacity, happily jumped on the wagon of ignoring his spying relative. "Yes. I can always predict the fortune cookies" he announced, leading Joan away from the black car and in the general direction of Baker Street.

"No, you can't!"

"Almost can" he amended. "You did get shot, though."

Joan didn't expect the sudden subject change. "Sorry?"

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

 _I won't ask why he's bringing it up now._ "Oh yeah. Shoulder."

"Shoulder! I thought so."

She gave him a measuring glance. "No, you didn't."

"The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes, you do!" she laughed. It's was easy to banter with the man, despite his initial coldness. Even if most people didn't seem to get it, she could live with it.


	13. Chapter 13 - SiP - The yellow file

**Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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The next morning, minutes after Joan left to collect her bags and terminate her current tenure, Mycroft showed up at their door, as if he was laying in wait for this exact moment. Knowing him, he probably did. Sherlock listened to his steps ascending the stairs, gleefully noting that the sound was heavier than at the last visit – one more confirmation that he was right, Mycroft was gaining weight again.

Snatching his violin from the far end of the cluttered dining table, he quickly returned to the couch, right on time to see the imposing silhouette of the older Holmes appear in the doorframe. "Brother dear" he drawled in greeting. "To what do I owe this questionable pleasure?"

This earned him a long-suffering sigh and a thin yellow file being dropped on his feet. "I'd rather you know what you are getting into, Sherlock." Mycroft was towering over his sprawled form, looking irritatingly concerned and smug.

"I know enough" he snapped, starting to pluck random strings on the instrument. It always had an intriguing effect of shortening conversations with his brother.

"You can't do a proper work without all the relevant information."

Sherlock glowered at him. "This is not a case."

"But it **is** an experiment, isn't it?" Mycroft examined his nails for a minute, waiting for a response.

 _It is. It was. It's not. Assessment impossible. Unresolved loop identified. Pending code adjustment._

In guise of response, Sherlock increased the rhythm of the sharp staccato of random notes. "Look it over, will you" Mycroft finally gave up, and turned to leave. The younger man glanced at the file with distrust. It was yellow and it was nagging at him. Coming to a sudden decision, he gently put the instrument aside, grabbed the offending folder and rushed after the retreating government official.

"I don't need your help" he hissed, tossing the papers at an unimpressed Mycroft who had already took several steps down and lost his height advantage.

"Consider it a safety precaution" came the retort.

Sherlock glared, feeling surprisingly offended by the insinuation. "Watson is not a threat."

Mycroft chuckled in that highly arrogant manner of his that drove his younger sibling up the walls. "Perhaps not now, and not to you. But when you manage to alienate her, as you are prone to do with every person that crosses your path, I'll be sorely tempted to sit back and watch the fireworks."

"Go away" Sherlock growled, and stormed back to the flat.

"Contrary to what you seem think, brother dear, I would be interested in keeping this particular asset at your side" Mycroft called from the staircase, before finally getting out of the building. _How dare he? John is not an asset! She is...? No, she is more. I perceive more._

Pacing across the room, Sherlock felt slightly uneasy. It wasn't like him to refuse free information. But his new flatmate proved to be full of surprises, and he didn't want them spoiled. At least, that was the reasoning he came up with, when two hours later a grinning Joan dropped a duffel bag and a box full of books on the floor.

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A week later, Joan opened her useless blog ( _Ella kept nagging_ ), and thought of the crazy flatshare interview devolving into criminal investigation bordering on spy novel she had last weekend. The front page, except the series of frankly depressing one-sentence posts and the two vague and slightly worrying updates from the previous week, contained only her profile description.

 **Joan H. Watson**

 **(Call me John)**

 **I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan.**

No photo. She wasn't ready to show her mug to everyone on the web.

Sherlock was busy doing circles in the living room, probably for some obscure experiment, and clearly not aware that she could smell cigarettes even if he succeeded to not let her see them. Smiling thoughtfully to herself, she opened a new blog post and started typing.

The nervous pacing behind her stopped for a moment. "Joan **H.** Watson?" The interrogation mark was clear as day, but she was a tough cookie.

"Yep."

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 **A/N:** Alright, so here goes the Study in Pink. The following ark (and I still can't fully believe I manage to write **_arks_**...) will be an original plot, and a little shorter than this.


	14. Chapter 14 - The morning call

**Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

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Sherlock noticed rather quickly that Joan wasn't a morning person. Oh, she would be operational in less than five seconds if woken up in emergency (as proven during the recent incident involving a frying pan, different brands of sticky notes and a small fire at four in the morning), but when there was no adrenaline rush to get her system to gear up, she would need at least a cup of coffee and a substantial breakfast to start giving coherent answers to external stimuli. He found it fascinating that a person would go into combat mode at one summon, but otherwise would just sluggishly yawn in the kitchen. He was currently compiling an experimentation protocol to see what kind of impulses would elicit the fastest reaction from his newly found colleague, while appearing in deep thought to the world.

Joan wasn't exactly paying attention, as she was half-sprawled over the kitchen table, waiting for the water to boil. She was letting her hair grow, apparently because of her sister pestering about it relentlessly. And probably the lack of time and resources to go to a hairdresser (last cut done just before leaving the hospital, he estimated). Meanwhile, her bangs were constantly falling over her eyes, and being too sleepy to push them away, she just puffed at them, in a fruitless attempt to create enough air stream to move the annoying hair.

The kettle started to whistle softly, startling the good doctor from the semi-slumber. She pulled two relatively clean mugs from the shelf, and even produced two clean plates to put some toast on. It still surprised Sherlock that she would prepare his share too, even if he rarely touched it. But she didn't seem ready to stop, and he caught himself eating the toast occasionally. Looking marginally more awake than ten minutes ago, Joan brought Sherlock's plate and mug to his side. She seemed to have learned that there were moments her flatmate wouldn't react to anything. This sort of meditation, or mind palace as he called it, wasn't a rare occurrence, and she had to work around it, not that it seemed to overly bother the ex-soldier.

Luckily, she couldn't tell when he was pretending yet. Sherlock had little doubt that Joan would be able to do so shortly, but until then, he shamelessly used this advantage to covertly observe his flatmate's behavior in the casual setting.

So far, he came to following conclusions:

 _i) John Watson was always ready to help (_ _Evidence:_ _helped Mrs Hudson in minor handiwork, did the shopping for both of them, complied with occasional errands)._

 _ii) Joan Watson preferred to be called John (_ _Evidence:_ _bitter grimace every time her sister called her Joan on the phone)._ _Side note :_ _she intentionally does not reveal her middle name – investigation in progress._

 _iii) John had a nasty temper (_ _Evidence:_ _the yelling he got after leaving some fingers rot in tea mugs)._

 _iv) John tried hard to appear common and normal, and dull, but this front fell quickly at every conversation they had._

 _v) John got bored just as quickly as him, but she was better at managing it. At least for now._

 _vi) John seemed genuinely fond of Sherlock. And impressed by his deductive abilities. Which was refreshing. And she was actually mindful of his moods (_ _Evidence:_ _she didn't push him to eat or sleep, even when she clearly thought he should; she didn't nag him about his bouts of inactivity or unorthodox experiments, at least the less destructive ones)._

Overall, he found himself discovering new things about Joan Watson every day, which was highly unusual – it never took him so long to know a person. Then again, maybe he never wanted to know that much about a person before.

A soft clutter indicated that Joan finally arrived at the table with her breakfast. She was relishing a long sip of coffee, when her phone beeped urgently from her pyjama's pocket. Her initial scowl deepened at the sight of the caller's ID. Being privy to only one side of the conversation, Sherlock listened raptly.

"Watson" was her sharp greeting. Her voice was harsh, obviously trying to distance herself from the caller, but still holding remnants of sleep.

The muffled voice on the line sounded urgent. Sherlock saw the moment adrenaline kicked in and Joan woke up. "What?!" Her eyebrows shot up at the answer. "What do you mean, missing?" Another frantic string of muffled syllables. "Did you call the police?" She got up, toast and coffee forgotten. "Alright. I'm leaving now, hang on till then." She put the phone down with a little too much force. "Right" she sighed.

Sherlock kept pretending to be disconnected from the world. After a quick glance at him, Joan practically ran upstairs, and he heard her rummage through the closet. _Interesting._ He was considering the new data, while nibbling at the toast, when Joan came back five minutes later, fully dressed. She made a beeline to her phone, but paused hesitantly in the middle of the room, chewing her lower lip. It was the first time Holmes saw his flatmate being prey to such doubts, and waited patiently for the outcome. The toast was finished, so he occupied himself with gulping down the coffee.

Finally, Watson seemed to come to a decision, and turned to face him, standing at parade rest. "Sherlock…" she started. The detective looked up, indicating his attention. "Can I ask you for a favor?" He just lifted an eyebrow as a cue to elaborate. It was also intriguing to see how quickly Joan learned to interpret his facial expressions. "I think it's probably nothing bad, but there is a boy missing, and I would appreciate your opinion on the matter."

That was the politest anyone had gotten while inviting him to a case. _Delightful._ "I'd be happy to help, John" he said with maybe a little too much false cheer, judging by the incredulous look on the doctor's face.

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 **A/N:** So, it's a short ark with an original plot, as promised. Hope that you like it :)


	15. Chapter 15 - Andrew

Thank you for your review, follows and favs! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

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Joan really didn't expect the quiet morning to go to hell that quickly. She thought forlornly about her toast, while watching London fade away behind the cab's window. There was an impatient shifting on her right, eliciting a resigned sigh. She had been the one to invite him, after all, but wasn't above stalling a little. Somehow, she was (almost) certain that what she was about to do would rather please than annoy the detective. Turning to her flatmate, the doctor said casually: "Tell me, what do you know already? I'll correct or complete you."

Sherlock gave her a quizzical look, tainted with amusement, before rolling out his deductions in one breath: "The call was from someone you know for a long time and feel obligated towards – you answered the phone despite not wanting to talk to them. You make the same face when Harry calls, but it was someone else, a man, judging by the voice tonality. Considering the potential gravity of the matter, a missing child, I'd go with an estranged family member or a family friend, someone you don't keep regular contact with, but who would instinctively rely on you in case of emergency – it is barely eight in the morning, you were clearly their first call. The missing boy, however, you are fond of, it is evident by the worry lines on your face and the fidgeting. The man who called you is his father, obviously. So, you are distant with the father but like the son. Now, it is not your character to let relationships fade, there must be a good reason for you avoiding this person. Something about his moral conduct, I presume." He gave a considering hum, reviewing what he just said. "You asked me to come, because you don't want to leave any doors open for the search, smart of you actually, but you are also reluctant to face the boy's father alone, or you wouldn't have hesitated that much before requesting my presence. You are a war veteran, you wouldn't be intimidated by a man from your own generation, so an authority figure, an uncle or…" he paused, surprised by his own conclusion. "… **your** father?"

Joan stared at him, mouth agape, for a few seconds. "Wow. Amazing." She shook her head a little. "All that from what, a couple of phrases?"

"Twenty-one words, John" he supplied helpfully. "And three weeks of sharing a flat. Don't underestimate me."

"Right" she smiled weakly. At the demanding glare she was getting, she elaborated. "Yes, it was my father on the phone."

"I thought your parents were dead."

"Just my mother. When I was eighteen. Cancer." _How different her life would have been with her still alive?_ She kept staring in the distance. It was simpler to tell this story to the air. "My father… well, he had always been a workaholic. We'd barely seen him after this. Then he remarried to a much younger woman when I was still in uni, and finally had the son he always wanted, and we kinda lost contact." Sherlock watched her like a hawk, clearly filing away the unveiled bitterness in her voice and posture. "Michael is a good kid" she added more brightly. "I just hope dad and Jen are overreacting, and he just sneaked out with a friend."

"You resent your father for the remarriage?" Sherlock asked skeptically. He wasn't that good with sentiment, but could tell that Joan wasn't one to hold such childish grudges.

She glanced at him, sheepish. "I don't resent him, or avoid him for that matter. He had to get on with his life, and it's perfectly normal. But we haven't talked much for years. It wasn't intentional. Just happened." She sighed heavily. Their father had always been demanding, and not particularly accepting of opinions that differed from his point of view. The bad temper ran in the family, and it was difficult to survive any family dinner without someone blowing up, so the number of said dinners slowly dwindled to zero over time. "He didn't even call me when I was sent home. Or visit Harry after her divorce. So, you were right in your first assessment, my only somewhat close family **is** my sister."

They fell into contemplative silence, Joan still mulling over her disastrous relationship with her family, Sherlock filing away new information. He had assumed that Joan had a happy, normal childhood. It appeared that he was wrong ( _never assume_ ). While his own family wasn't exactly normal, he couldn't deny the underlying care in their interactions. He never doubted that his parents loved him, despite disappointment and heartbreak he must have brought at some stages of his life. Joan didn't have this safety net to fall to, and still grown to be someone even Mycroft came to respect. It both intrigued Sherlock and made him more careful in his approach - _a puzzle with s_ _o many layers, it wouldn't do to mess this up by peeling them off too rashly._ The mental image of his own father popped up in his head, smiling ("Are you being humble for once?"), but was quickly tucked away.

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The house Joan's father and step-mother lived in was a typical non-descript two-stories building, rounded by other similar constructs and gardens maintained at various levels of diligence. Upper middle-class, stuck into the work-home-sleep routine, with meaningless gossip between neighbors to liven up their existence. _Dull._ A single police car was stationed in front of the house, with one constable checking something in his notebook. The door was slightly ajar, his partner most likely being inside with the panicked family.

The cab drove away slowly, while Joan and Sherlock covered the distance to the lawn. Sherlock could see the signs of a child inhabiting the house – a bicycle against the wall, a ball under the stairs. A window just over the veranda was half-open, and he could see colorful stickers on the glass. He lagged behind, letting Joan take the charge. She was literally marching to the constable, determination set in her shoulders and steps, every inch of a soldier.

"Morning" she greeted tersely. The young man looked up, a little surprised, but tiredly resigned to deal with curious onlookers.

"Please, circulate, ma'am, there is nothing to see…"

"I believe there is. Joan Watson, my father called me in." Sherlock smirked inwardly at the dumbfounded expression on the man's face, who fumbled for a come-back. He was saved by the front door flying open, and a grey-haired stocky man hurrying towards them.

"Joan! What took so long?" he demanded instead of a greeting.

Joan nodded briefly at the constable, then turned to face her father. Sherlock watched eagerly the encounter. He could see the resemblance between the two persons, in the shape of their earlobes and the slight crook of their nose tips, the shade of greying blond and the stubborn set of their jaws. Watson patriarch however exuded nervous energy and irritation, while Joan stayed neutral and mild, even if she couldn't hide (from Sherlock anyway) the effort it cost her ( _furrowed brow, tense shoulders, hands clasped in the back – she worries and not only about the missing brother_ ).

"Traffic" she answered the previous question in a carefully subdued tone. "What happened?"

Joan's father crossed his arms in apparent disapproval, not moving an inch, but started talking nevertheless: "Michael has football training in the morning. I went to wake him up, and the room was empty, his bed made, and he is nowhere in the house. No note, nothing."

"When was the last you've seen him?"

"Last night, around ten, we sent him to bed. At seven thirty this morning, he wasn't there." He frowned even more. "Have you been in touch lately?"

Joan gave him a very sharp look, easily reading the unsaid accusation. "No" she replied curtly.

The older man responded with a sharp calculating glare of his own that made Holmes feel strangely irritated, but didn't push further. He did finally notice Sherlock's looming presence at his daughter's side, however: "And who's that?"

"Father, this is Sherlock Holmes, a friend and a detective. Sherlock, this is my father, Andrew Watson" Joan intoned, making vague hand gestures between them.

"Pleasure" Sherlock commented when no reaction came from Mr Watson. And he thought he was the one inapt in social niceties.

"May we come in?" Joan suggested on the brink of losing her neutral mask. Obviously, she was used to her father's unfriendly behavior, and knew how to manage it, but her temper couldn't take long of this careful balancing either.

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 **A/N:** Sherlock gets a rather extensive family back-story in the series (and I like that), while John only gets an alcoholic sister we never see. A bit not fair, don't you think?


	16. Chapter 16 - Michael

Thank you for your reviews, follows and favs! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

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After her father absently directed them to Michael's room before rushing back to his wife, they climbed the narrow set of stairs in relative silence. She could hear Jen half-sobbing, half-talking to the police officer in the living room downstairs, and was secretly glad she hadn't been forced to meet her yet. The woman was nice, but well… Step-mothers not that much older than first-marriage children. Awkward.

At the door decorated with a big red-paint 'M', left ajar, Joan gestured silently for Sherlock to go first. The consulting detective swept in with a small nod, taking in the slightly crowded but surprisingly tidy room. It was full of red and yellow, banners, posters, pictures, mainly of sportsmen and diverse machinery, and a model of a helicopter hanging from the ceiling. The original bluish wallpaper peaked in some spots. The large window had some stickers stuck to the glass, some older than other judging by scratch marks - helicopters again, tanks and sport cars. The bed was neatly made, with an acceptable attempt at hospital corners. The desk was covered by stacks of school books and fantasy novels. Joan could just picture her little brother in here, bright, bordering on hyper-active, and curious. She skimmed over book titles, while Sherlock sprawled on the floor to take a good look under the bed.

A triumphant and slightly muffled 'aha' was followed by the sound of something ripped off. "Sherlock?"

The consulting detective shot up from under the bed, a paper-craft envelop in hands, with pieces of duct-tape hanging from it. "It had been tapped under the bed" he explained smugly before carefully prying it open. He peeked inside, with Joan silently waiting for his conclusions. Newspaper articles and pamphlets were pulled out gingerly, along with slightly yellowed letters.

"That's my hand-writing" Joan recognized. "I sent him these letters during my deployment."

Pamphlets were all about the Royal Army and officer training, the kind distributed on information days in schools, and news articles related to current military operations abroad. "Well, John, I'd say you set an example for your brother" Sherlock commented.

Feeling her ears burn, she skimmed through the leaflet describing the officer training. "Doesn't tell us where he is now." There was a pregnant pause. "Does it?" she glanced at her flatmate questioningly.

"In a way, it does. Look around, what do you see?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "I am blind compared to you."

That earned her a fleeting pleased smile, but didn't discourage the man from insisting: "But what **do** you see?"

 _Sigh._ "I see a boy's room. He likes boxing, planes and tanks. He knows our father doesn't really approve of the army business."

"He's a schoolboy, right?"

"Well, yes, he's twelve."

"Where is his bag?"

 _Oh._ _OH. Somehow, missing things are more telling, huh._ "You think he ran away?" she inquired, looking over the room with a new perspective.

"I **know** it. The missing bag, the mess in his closet, the map" – there was a detailed country map pinned over the bed indeed, littered small red and blue dots added by hand – "not only did he ran away, he ran with a purpose."

"Army?" she sighed heavily.

"It appears so, yes." She sighed again. "Disappointed?"

"No, god no. But he's not the one who'll get yelled at. Should have clarified that he can't enroll before eighteen. Any idea where he would be right now?"

"I'm not a medium, John" Sherlock retorted coldly. Before breaking into a small grin. "But I can estimate his location with an adequate level of accuracy."

She smiled weakly at him. "Great. We'll borrow dad's car, then. I'm driving."

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After vague explanations to the distraught parents and harried constables ("We'll check the neighborhood"), Sherlock found himself sinking into the passenger sit of a blue Peugeot, cursing the curiosity that pushed him to accept this predicament in the first place. Because the way Joan Watson was steering the wheel, he started to doubt he'll ever see the end of the day. He didn't even know this car model could go that fast, or turn that sharply.

"Where now?" the crazy driver asked, looking much more relaxed than in the family house.

"Left" he croaked, clutching at his seat. Tires squeaked indignantly.

Somehow, they made it to a train station about forty kilometers away in a record time, and in one piece. Sherlock scrambled out of the much abused car, breathing heavily. "Where did you learn to drive, John?" he managed in a rather level voice.

"There were slow days in Afghanistan too" she smiled easily. Sherlock made a mental note to never ever let her drive again. Not with him in the vehicle.

The station was crowded - people leaving for work, teenagers on a school trip, idle wealthy going for a shopping trip in central London. It was also the nearest hub where an inspired twelve-years-old could catch a train to Sandhurst. Or at least a train that would bring him close enough. Joan was anxiously scanning the crowd, steady at his side, and trusting in his conclusions. It **was** a refreshing feeling.

There was a rather high-pitched yelp at their right, and while it went mostly unnoticed by the public, he could clearly see a small figure dart towards ticket counters. He taped Joan's shoulder briefly before heading after it. A blond boy, clutching a stuffed red schoolbag, was leaning against the wall, trying to appear inconspicuous and glancing fearfully around the corner. Judging by the half-amused, half-resigned snort from Watson, they had found the missing brother. It was disappointingly easy.

He let Joan take the lead again. Michael had seen them watching him, and was now stuck in place, wide-eyed. Joan walked slowly to him, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. "Nice trip, kid?"

The boy gulped. "I wanted to do like you."

"You can't enroll before eighteen, you know?" she informed him matter-of-factly.

It seemed to dishearten the aspiring soldier, whose shoulders visibly sagged. "Dad is angry, right?"

"More like worried. You could have left a note."

"I was going to send a letter."

"Good enough, I suppose." She grabbed his bag and swung it over her right shoulder. "You've come prepared at least" she smiled, feeling boots poking through the denim material. "Come, I want you to meet a friend of mine." Michael looked up at Sherlock, intimidated by the coat and the cold glare. "This is Sherlock, a friend who helped me find you. Sherlock, this is Michael, my little brother."

Filing away the 'friend' part of the presentation for later inspection, Sherlock responded to the tentative handshake the boy offered. He considered briefly the merits of keeping his opinions to himself, but that was rarely even a question. "I give you points for going that far on your first try, but next time, save for a cab. More difficult to track down."

Joan glared at him mockingly: "Sherlock, please don't encourage my brother to run away again. Now, let's get you home."

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 **Disclaimer 2:** John's driving had been inspired by "Never Again or why Sherlock always drives" by grannysknitting.


	17. Chapter 17 - Jen

Thank you for your follows and favs :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

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Convincing Joan to take the backseat with Michael wasn't very difficult, and it was a much more relaxed Sherlock that pulled into the driveway. Constables were about to leave, with Andrew Watson watching them from the doorstep.

They all froze when three of them climbed out of the car.

"Michael!" Mr Watson ran to his son, engulfing him in a hug. Probably having heard her husband, a fair-haired middle-aged woman emerged from the house. Stifling a shout, she ran to her family, falling on her knees before the boy and hugging him too. Her eyes were trimmed red, hair in disarray. She had been devastated by worry.

Joan was watching them with a wistful smile.

"Where have you been, Michael?" managed to ask the mother – _Jen, was it?_ – after several minutes.

The kid appeared shaken by his parents' reaction, and replied waveringly: "I… wanted to go to Sandhurst."

Sherlock saw the tension creep back into his flatmate's and her father's bearings. "Army?" asked Mr Watson in a clipped voice.

"Y…yes…"

Joan shifted slightly to stay at parade rest.

Andrew got up to his feet, a vein beating on his forehead. "Did you put him up to this?" he not-quite shouted at his daughter, nearly invading her personal space. . Sherlock noted the rapid change of face color and put down a mental note to prepare an experiment regarding the correlation between strong emotional input and skin pigmentation, involving Anderson, Donovan and their cronies.

"No" was the calm answer.

"My kid won't be involved in this business!"

Sherlock frowned at the appalling display of family distrust. And he thought Mycroft was bad. Joan's eyes flared with repressed anger. "I couldn't have put him up for anything, since we barely keep in touch as it is." She enunciated every syllable as if shooting a bullet. "Tell me, **dad** , why did you call me today if you are so **disgusted** by me?"

There was a pained gasp from Jen, who hugged her son tightly, wide eyes going from husband to step-daughter. She didn't seem hostile or disapproving. Just confused and tired. Michael looked like he was about to cry, but well, he was a kid in a middle of an adults' dispute. Andrew Watson was glowering at his daughter with remnants of righteous anger, but seemed at a loss for words, and more than a little disturbed by her outburst. Slowly, his fury seeped away, leaving just an angry front that hid rather badly a blooming shame.

"Right" Joan said sharply, as she brushed past him to leave, already weary of the whole ordeal. She stopped shortly to pat Michael's hair, giving him a small reassuring smile. "Call me next time" she muttered softly to the kid, then she was off like the wind.

Silently marveling at the range of emotions his flatmate displayed in a matter of seconds, Sherlock shrugged at the stunned family, and followed suite.

They walked briskly for about five minutes before he decided to speak up: "He's not disgusted." She gave him a questioning look, still tainted with anger and hurt. "He sees someone else in you. And doesn't know how to deal with it." Joan frowned, trying to reconcile this new tidbit of information with her family history.

"Oh …" she finally said. "My uncle died at Falklands." She rubbed her neck uneasily. "He should say something then. There are things that need to be told."

"Like I always said, sentiment is the enemy of rational thinking."

They walked in silence for another five minutes. Sherlock started to wonder if he should suggest a cab, when Joan Watson surprised him again. "Thank you for coming."

While his mind went in overdrive processing the rare occurrence of being thanked, his mouth went on auto-pilot: "I found the whole experience quite informative."

She looked puzzled for a second, before chuckling: "Of course, you did."

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The next evening she got a call from Jen, who was quite effusive in her gratitude, making Joan more than a little uncomfortable. And being uneasy made her pace the living room, unaware of Sherlock raptly observing her every move. "And I'm sorry for your father's behavior. You know how stubborn he is."

She didn't want to discuss her father with his own wife. "I know" she answered in a clipped tone.

"He's worried about his kids. All of his kids."

She heard herself blurting out: "He has a strange way showing it." There was a shuffling on the other end of the line, then a pregnant pause. "Jen?" Silence. "Forget I said it. Nevermind…"

"I'm sorry" said Andrew Watson. Stunned, the ex-soldier dropped to the couch, eyes wide. She could hear Jen hissing angrily to her father to go on. _Good_ _woman_ , she thought absently. "I don't want you to think that I… that I disapprove of you."

"And do you?" she asked softly. _Just a 'sorry' won't make up for years of distance and frowns. But it feels nice nevertheless._

"No" he stated firmly, then continued to stumble with his apology. "It's a father's job to… to protect his children. And you… you grew up too fast. And… got hurt. I hate this. Not keeping any of you safe."

Joan blinked two times, processing what her father just said. "I'm glad none of us inherited your social skills, dad. You suck at this" she sighed, running a hand through her messy short hair. Andrew Watson spluttered indignantly on the phone. "We're lucky Jen bears with you."

"Now listen here, you little…"

"I love you too, dad" she smiled at her feet. _This, at least, never changed._

There was a rustling on the line again, then Jen's amused voice came by: "He walked away. Looked ridiculously happy, if you want my opinion."

"I stand by my early statement, thank god we didn't get his social skills."

"You should drop by for a diner someday, John. Harry too." Jen always respected her stepdaughters' eccentric preferences in names.

"That'd be nice."

"You could bring your tall and mysterious friend too" she unexpectedly teased. "He looks absolutely dishy." Joan blushed uncontrollably, to the great delight of the said friend who didn't know what caused this reaction but filed it away for later blackmail.

"We'll see" Joan croaked. "Good night, Jen."

"Night, John".

"Did you make up?" Sherlock asked immediately when his flatmate dropped the phone on the table. She looked up, startled.

"Yeah. Yeah, we did."

"Good. I can't have you distracted."

"Why's that?" she inquired suspiciously.

"I'm bored."

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They were eating take-out thaï, when Sherlock suddenly asked: "Hannah?"

Joan looked up thoroughly confused, but quickly caught up. "Shut up."

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 **A/N:** I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but I don't intend to make Andrew, Jen or Michael permanent characters either (they might pop up at some point again, though...). Strangely enough, Harry really doesn't want to be written. And yes, John's father is a tsundere. So sue me.

Anyway, Blind Banker is being uncooperative as hell, and I want to post only when the entire story-ark is finished (proof-reading and all that). It might be awhile before I update, sorry.


	18. Chapter 18 - TBB - Routine

**A/N** : Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, everyone! :) Here we go again.

 **Disclaimer:** 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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A month of living with Sherlock Holmes had proved to be full of ups and downs. First thing she learned about this flatshare – violin wasn't the worse about Sherlock. He kept irregular hours, ate nothing until he devoured all their provisions, stayed awake for days before literally hibernating for twenty hours (she was just about to drive him to a hospital when he wouldn't wake up), and was frequently bored (and boy, did he made it known to everyone in London). The whining "boooored" quickly became the plague of her days. Because bored Sherlock would try to occupy himself by doing experiments, demonstrating an impressive commitment to destroy all sorts of things.

Sometimes, she was under impression of being back in med-school, where anatomy courses bordered on gross and everyone was so used to random body parts in the lab, that it didn't faze anyone anymore. She did try to keep a fine line between science and food, though, which resulted in several rows. At least, her RAMC cup was deemed off-limits now.

He didn't bring her to a case after that first night, most likely because he didn't have a worthy case since then, but she did bring him to search for her runaway brother. That should count for something.

She stopped going to her therapist, but kept on updating her blog sporadically. And kept going to her physical therapy. All in all, life had been looking up… that is, until she went shopping.

 _God, I didn't miss this part of civilian life,_ Joan grumbled to herself while trying to **very** **gently** put a pack of canned beans in the bagging area. "Please try again." After another lettuce refused to be scanned, a helpful old lady behind her in the queue decided to take charge. The process sped up significantly.

"You are a life-savior" she said, sagging with relief when all articles were scanned.

"It is not often that I can help young people with all those gadgets" the woman smiled in return.

The credit card took a worrying amount of time to connect, but it miraculously worked in the end. Sighing in relief, Joan collected her bags and glanced at the god-sent lady's shopping cart. It was quite full. "Do you need any help carrying that?"

"Oh no, dear, I'll manage."

"It's the least I can do" she insisted.

They ended up going in the same direction anyway, so Joan carried most of her bags, despite half-hearted protests from the lady, who introduced herself as Elizabeth Turner. They chatted agreeably along the way, mainly with Mrs Turner sharing her stories about her late husband, a ship captain in Royal Marine, and how she had been honest-to-god president of a labor union in her younger days. Joan made impressed and appreciative noises at all the right places of the story, and readily agreed that stuck-up bureaucrats were always such bores, no matter the times.

The ex-soldier was, however, surprised when her new acquaintance stopped at 219 Baker Street. Apparently, she had managed to meet **the** Mrs Turner next door, who had married gay tenants - the hot topic of the local gossipers, apparently. Mrs Hudson wouldn't stop chattering about it.

Hoisting the groceries to the door-step, Joan explained that she was the new face at 221b. "Oh, my goodness, that's quite a coincidence!" Mrs Turner gushed. "You should come for tea, dear. My son Henry would be coming by this Sunday, you would get along famously!"

Joan laughed nervously at that, and hurried to her own door. Matchmaking landladies were more dangerous than the Taliban, in her opinion. At least, you could always shoot the latter.

She crawled up the stairs, feeling her shoulder twitch in protest to all these bags she decided to carry around the town. _Hang on, body part, almost there,_ she grumbled internally. "You took your time" said Sherlock from behind a book the moment she reached the flat.

"Yeah, made a friend at the store" she huffed, dragging the bags to the kitchen and finally dropping them on the counter. There was a pregnant pause between them, and while she busied herself with putting away vegetables, Holmes seemed to come to a conclusion: "Ah, Mrs Turner. How kind of you."

"Well, I did land a diner with her son as a reward" she replied, trying to place a tin of sugar on one of the top shelves. It was proving to be a little difficult due to her height, and Joan jumped a little to push it there. Luckily, the manoeuvre wasn't visible from Sherlock's chair and she believed herself stealthy enough to have done it silently. _Probably._

"Is that a new technic? Helping little old ladies in hopes to land a date with their sons?" He sounded curious.

"Do I look like an inheritance-hunter?" she asked indignantly, meandering back to the room.

That earned her a calculating look-over. Apparently, the idea had not been discarded right out, which should have offended the good doctor but strangely didn't. "No."

"Then rest assured that I didn't approach our neighbor with nefarious purposes in mind." Sherlock snorted in amusement, and went back to his book.

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Later that day, while Joan dozed off on the couch, Sherlock managed to break into her computer. He would have gotten away with it too, but she woke up while he was browsing his emails. "Is that my computer?"

"Of course," came the absent-minded reply.

"What?!" There were things on her computer she didn't want anyone to see. _Like, no one at all._ Even if they were encrypted and squirrelled away in hidden folders.

"Mine was in my bedroom" Sherlock clarified. _This is no excuse._ Joan got up angrily, towering for once over the dark-haired man. He ignored her in favor of starting to type an email.

Seeing red, Joan slammed the lid shut, barely missing Holmes' fingers, and snatched the device away. "Next time, do get up" she commented dryly, marching to the chair. The wannabe hacker remained impassive, just propping his elbows on the table and looking lost in thought. Joan glared at him for a moment, before turning attention to the towering stack of unopened mail. Most of which were bills. _Damn._

Her bank account was in no shape to pay up for all this. The lazy part of her consciousness suggested to dive into emergency funds, but… _no, not going this way. Current bills are definitely not an emergency._ "Need to get a job."

"Oh, dull" commented off-handedly the flatmate.

"Half of it is yours, you realize?" Apparently not, as the man stayed silent. "Sherlock, are you listening?"

"I need to go to the bank." _Well, that was quick,_ she thought, trailing after the man if only to escape the sight of red mentions calling for urgent payment.

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 **A/N 2:** For those who are interested, I also posted a one-shot that has nothing to do with this story. Just an idea that kept running in my head.


	19. Chapter 19 - TBB - The Bank

Thank you for your follows and favs, and thank you for reading :)

 **Disclaimer:** 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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When Sherlock said bank, she didn't expect it to be an investment bank in a shiny glass and steel building in the City. Not exactly her natural habitat. Holmes didn't seem to blend in either, but it was less obvious, what with his I-own-the-world attitude. She sighed internally, which was becoming a rather annoying habit around Sherlock. _Had I known, I would have put some nicer clothes. Vanity, thee name is woman, indeed._

They ended up in an impersonal office, all straight lines and efficiency, that made her feel vaguely uncomfortable. She had always preferred older furniture, something that had a story to tell, and that was also part of the reason 221b felt so homey from the start. Glancing through the glass-door at all those suit-wearing men and impeccably dressed women on high heels, Joan fidgeted uneasily with the hem of her worn greyish jumper peaking under the jacket. _Get a grip, Watson… Why am I here, already?_

A man around Sherlock's age walked in, suit and all, grinning like a cat who just ate the canary. "Sherlock Holmes!" he exclaimed, stretching his hand out.

Sherlock own grin felt dreadfully fake. "Sebastian." The newly named Sebastian clasped Sherlock's hand gleefully. Joan started to get an unpleasant vibe from the whole situation.

"Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" Judging by Sherlock's expression, it was still too soon. Joan steeled for her round of introductions.

Both men were much taller than her ( _unfair, bloody unfair that's what it is_ ), and a lesser person would have been at least slightly intimidated when they turned to her, Sebastian the banker with a politely raised eyebrow and Sherlock with a surprisingly smug glint in his eyes. "This is my **friend** , Joan Watson." _He bloody knows I hate that name_ , she gave Sherlock a dark look that promised dire retribution.

Maybe she shouldn't have displayed her bad mood that openly, since the smarmy banker immediately latched on it: "Friend?" The way he eyed her like a piece of rather unsavory meat, with gaze straying longer than necessary on her chest, made Joan's temper skyrocket again.

"Yes, that's what he said" she drawled slowly, mentally appraising whether the man's tie could be used for on-spot strangulation.

Looking slightly unsettled, Sebastian shook her hand nevertheless. "Right" he gave her a one-over again. "Right." The look he gave Sherlock reminded Joan that ties could be used as a gag too. "Well, grab a pew. D'you need anything? Coffee, water?" Sherlock absently shook his head, observing Joan from the corner of his eyes, probably confused by her behavior. _Can't help it, mate_. The long-lived dislike of falsely polite self-entitled bastards was winning over the general irritation regarding her given name.

"No" the ex-soldier gritted through her teeth. She could feel that Sherlock was uneasy around the banker, and couldn't fathom why they even came here. Those bills weren't such a big problem. There was no need to invest and play the market. Normally. She certainly hoped so.

"No?" Sebastian was all smiles again. "We're all sorted here, thanks" he said to his secretary, whom Joan didn't even notice before that very moment. _Damn, that girl is quiet._

A silence settled in the room, with only Sebastian looking perfectly at ease. Joan sat down with a good imitation of the polite smile everyone was sporting in the building ( _is it a flashmob or something?_ ) and seethed internally. Sherlock, however, felt the need to do small talk, for whatever reason: "So, you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, some" Sebastian purred.

"Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?" Sherlock insisted.

The banker laughed, rather unpleasantlyin Joan's biased opinion, as if hearing a good joke. "Right, you're doing your thing." He turned his attention to Joan. "We were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick" she heard a quiet protest to her left and frowned.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story."

"Yes, I've seen him do it" she answered on auto-pilot, while her mind rewound the conversation. _They clearly (probably) weren't here to invest or anything. The smarmy git in a suit knew Sherlock, but didn't keep regular contact. Sherlock wasn't particularly fond of the man either._

"Put the wind up everybody" the git in question continued. _This is a business transaction_ , she decided. _And Sebastian here enjoys bossing people around…_ "God, we hated him." Joan's eyes hardened instantly at the cruel words, said with a toothy smile, _as if this gets the bite off._ The concealed but sharp inhale from Holmes was enough for her to reconsider the ingrained British politeness and pull out her inner yankie (nights spent stitching up men and women from all horizons could muddle the cultural identity for anyone).

When the banker made to further elaborate, the ex-soldier pivoted on the chair to address Sherlock instead of his insufferable acquaintance, in a mild and conversational voice: "Sherlock, why are we here again?" Unused to be dismissed in such cavalier manner, Sebastian sputtered and blinked at them owlishly. Sherlock looked rather surprised himself, but also glad for the non sequitur.

He composed himself quickly enough: "Why, Joan" - she glared again at the use of her name and the man finally got the hint, sending her a sheepish half-smile – "because Sebastian here asked for my help." _Damn right he did, and he'd better act like it now, or I'm dragging you out of here. Or throw him out the window. It depends._ Joan's murderous thoughts were interrupted in turn by the banker clasping his hands together, somewhat miffed about his fun being ruined.

"Yes, well, I'm glad you could make it. We've had a break-in."

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Forty minutes later, after Joan had the questionable pleasure of getting an advance cheque from Sebastian and the definite pleasure (and much amusement) of seeing Sherlock work his magic on the trading floor, even if he wasn't sharing his findings yet, they were finally strolling out of the bank.

"Two trips around the world this month. How did you know?" she asked softly on the escalator. Sherlock gave her a mysterious smile, but remained silent. "Come oooon" she pleaded light-heartedly. "How **did** you know?"

The detective considered her for a second, _does he see anything new every single time?_ , then… "Did you see his watch?"

"His watch...?"

"The time was right, but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice, but didn't alter it."

"Ok, but within a month? How'd you get that part?" She was genuinely curious. Seeing that brilliant mind at work, even for small things, was fascinating.

"New Breitling. Only came out this February." _It sounds so simple when he says it._

She didn't realize that her last thought had been voiced out, but apparently it was, since Sherlock was looking curiously at her again. Blushing slightly in embarrassment (the inner Brit came back to reign), Joan changed topics: "So, that break-in? Shouldn't we question employees or something?"

Luckily the case took precedence over analyzing Watson's mercurial attitude, as Sherlock instantly switched into the smart-ass mode. "Got everything I need to know already, thanks." They had passed revolving doors, emerging in the tentative sun of a London's afternoon. After further explanations, they managed to grab a cab (i.e. Sherlock effortlessly summoned it from the depths of traffic), and headed towards the neighborhood known for attracting young executives from the City.

While stuck at a red light, Sherlock suddenly turned his piercing silver eyes to her, question marks practically dancing over his head. "Why did you interrupt him?"

Joan quirked an eyebrow at him, absently wondering _did anyone ever defend him?_ "You introduced me as your friend. I had to live up to the title, and listening to his bile wasn't high on my wish list anyway." Sherlock's face became blank, and the medic in Joan suspected it was a coping mechanism to unexpected positive feedback. Or just plain shock. Intrigued, she decided to add oil to the fire. "And he frankly didn't deserve to hear your deductions." _Huh, should praise him more. The reaction is definitely funny._ Sherlock's face presented a study in badly concealed blushing surprise and slight confusion.

Clearly unable to formulate a response, he looked away. "I suppose he didn't" he finally replied.

They stayed silent for barely a few seconds before exploding into muffled giggles.

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 **A/N:** Yeah, I don't like Seb.

I'm also trying to make chapters longer... Might have fractioned it too much for the first part (sorry).


	20. Chapter 20 - TBB - Dimmock

Thank you for your follows and favs, and for reading! :) And thank you, my Guest reviewer, I hope you have a very good day too ;)

 **Disclaimer:** 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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The fleeting good humor was quickly forgotten, at least on Joan's part, when Sherlock opened van Coon's apartment from inside, only to show her the cold corpse of its owner. She let him look around, while placing the call to report the dead body. Surprisingly, the forensics were quick to arrive, and Anderson wasn't even on the crew. _Oh, happy day._ Joan meandered back to the bedroom, where Sherlock was putting on latex gloves, intent gaze focused on the open suitcase by the cupboard. Not eager to be roped into this particular path of investigation, she discreetly shifted towards the bed.

The City boy laid spread eagle across pristine silk sheets. _That must be expensive._ The small gun glinted innocently in his left hand. Her eyes skimmed over the suit, wondering how much money was spent into this piece of clothing, just so the man could kill himself wearing something nice… _Wait, left hand?_

Chiding herself for the lack of gloves, Joan leant over the body. _Yep. Bullet hole on the right, clean and clear._

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry" Sherlock informed her from his prime place by the suitcase. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it." He looked up to see her frown at the corpse instead of his findings. "Problem?"

"He didn't shoot himself" she stated, still examining the dead man without touching him.

"Oh, good, you follow." The man abandoned the case in favor of the poor bloke, pulling out a small magnifier.

Joan watched as the detective meticulously looked over every bit of van Coon's body. "But why?" Sherlock seemed to have discovered something in the dead man's mouth, she couldn't see from her spot.

"The graffiti. It was a threat." He jiggled a transparent evidence bag to her face, with a small black origami in it. In a way, it looked ominous. Considering the place it was found in, that is.

A commanding voice sounded from the hallway: "Bag this up, will you, and see if you can get prints off this glass." A police officer appeared in the room. _He looks like a teenager who had been left home alone for the first time and gets to play the boss_ , Joan thought. The fact that the man looked very young indeed didn't help either.

"Ah, Sergeant. We haven't met" Sherlock strolled towards the newcomer.

"Yeah, I know who you are" replied the young man with barely veiled hostility. _Teenager throwing a hissy fit then,_ Joan corrected herself. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." She moved closer to them, in case there was a need for mitigation.

"I've phoned Lestrade, is he on his way?" Joan threw her flatmate a questioning glance. He didn't phone anyone, to her knowledge. _Did he?_ _The man is sneaky sometimes…_

"He's busy, I'm in charge" announced the teen-officer. "And it's not sergeant, it's Detective Inspector Dimmock." They exchanged an incredulous look with Sherlock, because, _seriously,_ the kid looked barely out of uni. _Did he drink at the fountain of youth or something?_ While they were digesting the information, the walking curiosity left them in favor of bossing around his forensics team.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide" was heard in the living room.

"Wrong" Sherlock boomed, striding after the DI. "It's only one **possible** explanation of **some** of the facts." Joan recognized the petulant glare sent to the room at large as one of 'you-are-idiots' variety. "You purposely ignore anything that doesn't comply with your easy solution."

Dimmock wasn't impressed. "Like?"

"The wound on the right side of his head" Joan chimed in. "And the gun in his left hand. If it was a suicide, his body would not be positioned as it is."

The youngling sputtered, and Sherlock picked up, not before nodding smugly at the doctor. "Van Coon was left handed, that much is clear from his flat."

"What?" Dimmock blinked at him. _Wrong move, kid. You just invited him to explain._ Joan smiled, and let the show unveil.

"Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets – habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. D'you want me to go on?" Dimmock blinked in bemused silence. "There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." Joan was the one to blink in surprise here, because the level of detail had yet ceased to amaze her. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the **right** side of his head." He even accompanied the statement with some contortions to drive his point home. "Conclusion – someone broke in here and murdered him. **Only** explanation of **all** the facts" he hammered it into the poor man's face.

"But the gun, why…" Dimmock tried helplessly.

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." Having delivered his findings and finding the audience lacking, Sherlock swept away to get his coat back on.

"What?!"

"There was a warning today, at the bank" Joan quipped in, thoroughly enjoying the scene.

"But the gun was fired!"

"The bullet went through the open window" Sherlock informed him from the door, already pulling on his scarf.

"Come on! How likely is that?"

"Wait for your ballistics report" the consulting drama queen replied, adjusting his scarf. "The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun, I guarantee it."

Dimmock looked around for support, but was thoroughly ignored by his colleagues. "The door was locked" he finally tried. "How did the killer get in?"

"Good! You're finally asking the right questions" Sherlock drawled before disappearing from the room. Joan choked a laugh at the DI's face, and followed suite.

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After they have finally gotten home, with no new information available, Sherlock sank into the couch in a meditative state. Joan took that time to browse job adds online, not wanting to rely entirely on her flatmate's irregular income to pay the bills. There were several offers for permanent positions, but it was rather far from the flat, and she wasn't up for a routine job yet. One small message from a local surgery on LinkedIn caught her attention. They were looking for qualified casuals to replace some permanent staff on leave.

Interested, she jolted down a private message to the account along with her updated resume (Ella made her work on it the week she got out of the hospital), and was rather surprised to get an answer half-an-hour later, requesting an interview tomorrow morning. Glancing at the immobile man in a dressing gown on the couch, she typed out a confirmation, clapped her laptop shut and went up to her room without a word.

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The morning started with a one-sided row. Specifically, with Joan finding out that her insomniac flatmate had used almost all hot water mere minutes before she got to the shower. There had been just enough left to fool her into emptying the shampoo bottle on her hair. Swearing non-stop in English and Farsi, with some German mixed in (joint seminars had taught her at least some vocabulary), and shivering under the freezing stream of water, Joan washed off the shampoo as quickly as possible, and practically leapt on her fluffy towel, sighing in relief. When the warmth returned to her body parts, she pulled on the bathrobe, and stormed out to confront the hot-water-thief. Despite her best efforts, Sherlock remained undaunted, completely absorbed in a staring match with the fireplace.

Joan was still fuming when she arrived for her job interview. She had managed to find a pair of dress pants for the occasion, along with a blue and white checkered shirt and a grey cardigan. It was perhaps a bit too casual, but after years in the army she had only a vague idea of what passed for professional dress-code these days, even less so for women. Even thinking about what Harry would say about her fashion sense made her shudder slightly. _We'll compensate with a smile_ , her inner voice intoned joyfully.

Dr Sawyer was a soft-looking blond woman (one that knew how to wear a dress), a little overwhelmed by her daily duties, but cordial nevertheless. She appeared skeptical at Joan's appearance at first, but one look at the resume made her eyebrows fly high. "Just locum work" she said hesitantly.

Joan replied with a winning smile. "That's fine."

Fifteen minutes later, she had a job. It somehow lifted her spirits.

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"I said, could you pass me a pen?" greeted her at Baker Street.

"What? When?"

"About an hour ago." _Of course. I clearly spend too much time around him, if he still talks to me when I'm gone._

"Didn't notice I'd gone out, then" she said, while looking for a pen under the rubble covering all surfaces of their flat. Eventually spotting the item and throwing the ballpoint in Sherlock's general direction over her shoulder, she continued: "I went to see about a job at the local surgery."

"How was it?"

"Great. I start tomorrow. Anything new regarding Van Coon?"

The man finally moved, pushing his own laptop towards her. "Here, take a look."

The rest of the morning and early afternoon were spent running around London, from NSY to a murdered journalist's flat, to a library, then back to the flat. One clue leading to another, like breadcrumbs, there was barely time to stop and think before lurching to the next stop. At least, it was the feeling Joan had. The impression of being included in the investigation rapidly dwindled back to nothing when the blasted git ran off along with his "artist" friend, leaving her to take the blame with Community Support Officers.

"Bit of an enthusiast, are we?" One of the officers kicked open Raz's canvas bag and was eyeing her with disdain.

Dropping the can into the bag, Joan arched an eyebrow at them. "Do I look like I'm into that stuff? I just stumbled upon the guy who drew **this**. Look, there's no paint on me!" She waved her hands at their faces to prove the point. It didn't seem to convince the pair though, who stepped forward with twin frowns. _Ok, Watson, think fast._ "Alright." _Keep stalling. Think faster._ "Alright, fine." She remembered seeing an old ID in her wallet the previous morning, that had been needed for some high clearance operations back in the day. It would check out suspended in the database, but CSOs shouldn't even have access to that. Good thing she had been too lazy to destroy it after her forced retirement as the procedure required. _Start the bullshit._ "Listen, I'm actually on some important business, here…" While they scoffed, she pulled out the useful piece of plastic, identifying her as a military liaison to a certain governmental agency. "And trust me, spraying obscure images over walls is not part of it."

Officers exchanged wary glances, examining the ID in her hand. "Your job doesn't give you the right to degrade public propriety." _Oh, for goodness' sake…_

"I wasn't degrading anything. Haven't you seen the two blokes sprinting away? One is my informant." _Stretching the truth a bit here. Oh, who cares..._ Giving up on playing nice, Joan snapped the ID back into her wallet. "You know what? I don't have time for this. Report me if you think it's necessary. Have a good day." After delivering the classic rebuke in a clipped voice, she just turned around and walked away, silently praying that they wouldn't tackle her to the ground and drag her dumb arse to the nearest police station.

They didn't.

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While Joan was rather proud of herself for having talked herself out of custody (who said she couldn't act her way out of a school play?), she was **furious** with Sherlock. Being thoroughly ignored when she finally got back to the flat didn't arrange the matter, and she ended up shouting again ( _twice a day, it can't be healthy_ ), with as much reaction from the man as from a concrete wall. Sherlock finally deigned to notice her when she slammed her hand on the fireplace, making some crime scene photographs fall off the mirror. "I can't place this symbol" he stated intently, perfectly unfazed by the violence threatened upon his person, and proceeded to manhandle Joan into her coat.

"Oi!" The glare she gave him would have sent her whole division run for cover, but apparently Sherlock Holmes had no survival instinct. The sheer audacity of his do-as-I-say-and-shut-up attitude never failed to shock everyone into compliance, though, including her temper. At least, that's what Joan grudgingly admitted to herself while the cab navigated through traffic towards Scotland Yard. It made her feel marginally better, knowing that the whole world didn't fare any better against her friend's moods.

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 **A/N:** Sorry for any mistakes, this month is rough but I wanted to post it today. Next chapters should be better ;)


	21. Chapter 21 - TBB - The museum

Thank you for the views, follows and favs! :)

 **Disclaimer:** 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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That evening Sherlock had successfully gotten over his undisclosed near-death experience at Miss Yao's flat ( _sensory file archived, recording physical effects, full analysis scheduled in forty-eight hours_ ), and was running around the railway tracks in search of elusive yellow messages. At some point, though, he got distracted by a particularly interesting mold stain that developed on an abandoned container, and was scrapping off a sample when Joan appeared running. "Answer your phone!" the ex-soldier huffed in annoyance. Sherlock discovered quite recently that an annoyed Joan was rather amusing and displayed a fascinating wealth of unexpected vocabulary. The absence of outward reaction seemed to extend the length of her rants, so he pointedly ignored them and filed away the interesting parts. "I've been calling you!" she continued breathlessly. "I've found it."

 _Oh._ And so he ran after her.

Too slowly, it appeared, as they came to a halt in front of a freshly repainted wall. "It's been painted over!" Pointing out the obvious was tedious, what else could have happened. In the corner of his mind Sherlock felt surprised to note that he automatically labelled "reliable" all information coming from Joan _(so that's what trust_ _is_ ). It was not the time to ponder on the matter, the game was still on. _Fact:_ _The paint is_ _ **very**_ _fresh._ _Fact:_ _No unusual sensory input detected from surrounding area._ _Conclusion:_ _The killer or his accomplices are either still in the area or already left_ _._

"I saw it!"

 _Fact:_ _John saw the message._ _Fact:_ _The message is vital to cracking the code._ "Somebody doesn't want me to see it" he muttered to himself. _Fact:_ _Average human's memory is not reliable, not over extended periods of time._ _Assumption:_ _Waiting to extract data would lead to its corruption. Estimating potential risks of data extraction on field._ _Assessment:_ _Current risk minimal, further security measures to consider._

Remembering light hypnosis technics he tested on himself two years ago without much success, Sherlock leapt at Joan, grabbing the sides of her head in both hands. She yelped in surprise, but thankfully didn't resist much. Hypnosis and memory extraction required sharp focus, that could be achieved by cutting the visual input. "John, concentrate, I need you to concentrate, close your eyes."

Her eyes widened instead. "What? No! Why? What are you doing?!"

 _Alternative procedure engaged._ Sherlock's hands dropped to Joan's shoulders and he started to spin them on the spot. "I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah." She licked her dry lips nervously.

"Can you remember it?" Despite their close quarters, he failed to notice the confusion on Joan's face morph into slight amusement.

"Yeah, of course."

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

She started to struggle, so Sherlock tightened his grip. Joan glared. "How much can you remember?"

"Don't worry…" she started, trying to pluck the long fingers from her upper arm.

 _Imminent data extraction failure._ "Because the average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate."

"Yeah, well, I can replicate all of it:"

 _Inconsistency detected._ _Fact:_ _John did not manifest eidetic memory._ _Conclusion:_ _Her claim is false._ "Really?"

The break in the spinning allowed Joan to get away from the crowding detective, and pull her phone out of the pocket. "Yes, because I took a photograph! Jesus, have a little faith, mate…" she grumbled, passing him the device, with the picture of a wall, covered in yellow numerals clear as day.

"Oh." _Never assume_ , Mycroft's voice echoed mockingly in his head, _You knew she favoured back-up plans_. He remained rather subdued during the cab ride home.

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Joan was bone tired when she got to the surgery the next morning. She napped on the sofa for most of the night, waking up sporadically through the night to answer Sherlock's inane demands (at one point, he took the effort of shaking her awake, but didn't bother to go to his own room to retrieve a notebook). But bills weren't going to pay themselves, so she dragged herself to her new job with a big cup of coffee in her hand.

Sarah eyed her skeptically and shoved the schedule of appointments in her hands. _Twenty-five. Twenty-five bloody appointments on the first day. Damn._ The day dragged on and on, with the monotony of patients interrupted on by coffee breaks ( _I will so regret it later_ ) and one very angry middle-aged woman who wanted to be examined only by a male doctor. Why would she choose to come to a clinic with a vast majority of female staff was a mystery to them all. When the last person on her list (a little boy who needed his shots) walked out the door around four o'clock, Joan stumbled to the reception, wondering whether she should offer to help some more or just go home. Dr Sawyer smiled at her. "Good job, Joan! I have to say, when I saw you this morning, I wasn't sure you'd manage."

"Please, call me John" she answered absently. "I wasn't quite sure myself. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"You don't look like a party girl" Sarah teased good-naturedly.

"Yeah, it was more of a sports event." _Understatement of the year._ "Anyway, do you still need me today?"

"No, it's all fine. Can you take a shift on Saturday morning?"

"No problem." Sarah jolted it down on timetable behind the receptionist's desk.

"Perfect. Go get some sleep, John" she smiled again, finally feeling friendly with the new hire.

"Thanks, Sarah. See you on Saturday!" Joan walked out, dreading the continuation of their case while nursing a sleep deprivation coupled with a caffeine crash. _That_ _sounds promising…_ Luckily (or unfortunately, depending on the point of view), her body had other ideas, and she shut down on the Tube, somehow sleeping soundly until the end station. Some kind soul woke her up before she got carried off to the warehouse, and she jogged to the opposite platform while cursing half-heartedly under her breath. It was a brief respite, and Sherlock would probably hold it against her, but the energy boost it provided was worth it.

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And she clearly needed that nap, as the night shaped out to be another late stake-out, at the museum this time. Joan couldn't begin to comprehend how in the nine circles of hell did Sherlock notice the shining patterns of bloody teapots, but it ended up (as usual) being the right guess. They were sitting across a pretty girl with a not so pretty past, a girl who held the key to their case. Joan felt pity for the younger woman. It was a tough life, always looking over her shoulder, always on the run. It must have been trying on so many levels. When Soo Lin finally admitted that her own brother was going around London killing people, Joan reached out, patting her hand gently. "You did the right thing" she said reassuringly, and was rewarded with a wavering and fleeting smile.

Sherlock huffed impatiently, and shoved the photograph of the vandalized portrait and the wall towards Soo Lin. "Can you decipher these?"

Bemused, the girl pointed to the portrait. "These are numbers."

"Yes, I know. Chinese numbers. But what is the code?"

"All smugglers know it." Dark eyes looked up at Sherlock in confusion. "It's based upon a book."

Before she could elaborate, the lights went out. All three of them tensed, with Soo Lin inhaling in fear. "He's here, Zhi Zhu. He has found me."

Joan should have been faster, but Sherlock took off so suddenly, head first into danger, too fast for her to stop. "Sherlock!" she hissed urgently. "Sherlock, wait!" The idiot didn't even acknowledge her. _Right. Sherlock off on his own, shadow killer in the building, and a defenseless woman is a target. Dammit._

"Come here." She grabbed Soo Lin's hand ( _it is so cold, so small, poor kid_ ), and pulled her into a corner, behind a desk. They crouched down. "It's alright. I'm with you." The silence was heavy, electric, ready to crack and explode. Sliding her gun out and cocking it, Joan closed her eyes and tried to bring her breathing under control. "What book is it?" The question was more to prevent them both from outright panicking than to get an actual response.

"… London AZ" Soo Lin whispered. Glancing over the table they currently used as protection, Joan spotted the said book just a few centimeters away from them in a pile of paper (why anyone in the museum would need it was beyond her). Gun firmly held in her right hand, she grabbed it and fumbled to put the photograph of graffities in it.

She managed a crooked smile at the frightened girl at her side. "Just in case."

Distant gunshots rang through the deserted museum, making them jump. _Sherlock._ Her first reflex was to get up and run to the detective, to check on him, to protect him. But the chocked sob from Soo Lin brought her back to reality. This woman was a target, a civilian, and Captain Watson was not abandoning protection duty until either the danger or herself had been eliminated. " **Damn** " she hissed, nails biting in her left palm in order to stay calm. _He's a big boy. He survived on his own until now. He knows when to duck._

The silence around them thickened. _Sherlock, be safe. Please, God..._

There was a rustle to their right, and Joan sprung up, gun pointed at the chest of a muscular Chinese man with cold merciless eyes and a pistol held loosely in his right hand. "Liang" Soo Lin breathed out.

"Drop it" Watson growled, aim steady. "Now." There was no outward reaction from Liang, but his sister cried out in surprise. It was too late. _Damn. There are more_ , was Joan's last thought before a heavy blow sent her crashing head first on the tiled floor. From the pervading fog, she heard a couple of gunshots in the distance. Then another blow knocked her out for good.

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After the gunman became silent on the upper floor, Sherlock did a full tour of the balcony, ducking behind columns to throw off the opponent's aim. Nothing. The rush of the chase died down a little, and his thought process kicked back in. _Fact:_ _The killer came to cut loose ends._ _Fact:_ _The target was Soo Lin._ _Conclusion:_ _He was lured away from her._ _Fact:_ _John stayed to protect the target._ _Conclusion:_ _John was in danger._ Losing his breath again, he rushed back. The lack of any further gunshots somehow reassured him about the women's safety, but they had to get out of the building and quick.

He skidded to a halt in the empty room, wind paging through stacks of documents on working benches. "John?" Silence. _Did they relocate to a safer location?_

Typing a quick text to Joan (" **Where are you** "), Sherlock took a tentative step inside. The loud buzz of a phone made him pause. _No way._ With long strides, the detective crossed the room, stopping in front of a strategically well-placed desk. Joan's phone was lying on the ground, the screen slowly fading to darkness. Feeling frantic, Sherlock switched on his flashlight and spun around, looking for any sign of his friend. The dull glint of metal just a few steps away attracted his attention.

Joan's gun was also lying forgotten, near a large smear of something dark. _Blood._

He nearly dropped the flashlight in shock. While fumbling with it, the beam crossed over something else, that made his blood run cold. Chinese numbers of 15 and 1 were painted in bright yellow over the nearby door.

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 **A/N:** *insert evil laughter here* ...yeah, well, not a big cliff-hanger, I admit.


	22. Chapter 22 - TBB - Dragon den

Thank you for your follows, favs and reviews! :)

 **Disclaimer:** 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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 _Fact:_ _John and Soo Lin were taken by the killer._ _Fact:_ _John didn't fire her gun._ _Fact:_ _John wouldn't have gone out without a fight._ _Conclusion: several attackers, they took her by surprise. __Fact:_ _Blood stains consistent with someone being dragged out of the room._ _Conclusion:_ _John had been rendered at least unconscious in the struggle, possibly dying… DELETE._

 _Fact:_ _Without the code, he could not find them._

 _Conclusion:_ _He was stuck._

Sherlock pulled at his hair in anger. This was not acceptable. _He would not fail this._

He turned back towards the phone, trying to determine what happened exactly while he was chasing after a bait. Joan brought Soo Lin behind the desk, in a corner, obviously. Basic protection, gives only one direction to cover… unless lured in the open. A first, obvious threat, and a second, hidden one, lashing out at the last moment. _Simple, but effective._ There was a book carelessly tossed on the ground, probably knocked off the table in action… _Wrong._

 _Distance assessment. Simulation in progress._ _Fact:_ _The book fell on the ground before the attack._ _Fact:_ _Joan or Soo Lin took the book to their hiding place for some reason._

A glossy corner of a picture protruded from the pages. _The code. Thank you, John._

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Sounds slowly dribbled into her foggy world. Fire cracking, people moving, someone sobbing quietly. Cracking an eyelid open, Joan found herself in a sort of an underground facility. Or place. _Or something._ Her head was hurting like crazy. Groaning, she tried to move her hands to shield from flickering lights, but her wrists were tied together in front of her. Something that felt suspiciously like caked blood was itching all over the right side of her face. _Not good_ , her muddled brain recognized.

"A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket" a feminine voice rang out. Joan tried to focus her gaze on the advancing figure, but it was difficult. _Definitely a concussion._ "Chinese proverb." The sobbing at her left intensified. Dropping her head to the side, she saw Soo Lin, face stained by fresh bruises and tear tracks, also tied up on a wooden chair. _Bloody hell, we are in trouble._

"That's nice" she croaked, furiously trying to kick her concussed self into gear and miserably failing.

"I am Shan" said their kidnapper, raising a small pistol to her head.

 _Where did I hear that name again?... Ah yes. Oh shit._ "You are Shan" she repeated dumbly, now understanding why Soo Lin was in such a bad shape.

The scary woman smiled down at the weakly struggling soldier. "Three times we tried to kill Sherlock Holmes and you, his companion. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?" _Three times?! I can barely remember one._ Then Joan's attention focused on the woman's finger slowly pressing the trigger.

 _Oh god, no, not like that._ She pulled at the ropes, staring at the barrel in a far-fetched attempt to stop the bullet with a glare. The click was louder than an actual shot to her strained ears. "It tells you that they're not really trying" came the less than reassuring explanation.

In high stress situations where she felt quite helpless, Joan had an unfortunate tendency to babble. "That's rather nice of you. Care to share why?"

Black eyes stared blankly at her. "Do you have it?"

"Have what?"

"The treasure."

"I have literally no idea what you're talking about."

"Let's make sure of it." Strong hands, faceless goons, grabbed her chair and brought it to the other side of a hooded object that was looming behind Shan. She could see Soo Lin's eyes glaze over in silent despair. Joan wasn't quite sure why they even kept the former smuggler alive. Perhaps means of pressure for herself or Sherlock. Or maybe they had other priorities on hand. Anyway, it was not Watson's most pressing concern at the moment.

Shan pulled off the hood, revealing a strange device, similar to a gigantic crossbow, with a huge bolt loaded in it. It pointed at her. "Oh, bloody hell…" the ex-soldier cursed in understanding.

"Where's the hairpin?" the crime lord inquired, menace laced through her voice.

"Seriously, lady, I don't know what you mean!"

The woman glared even more fiercely, if it was possible at all. "The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West; and then one of our people was greedy. He took it, brought it back to London. And Mr Holmes has been searching. So have you."

"I have certainly not!"

"Too bad for you then." That smile foreshadowed something very painful. Like the shiny knife produced from Shan's sleeve.

"What are you…" The knife pierced a sand bag that was hanging over the crossbow, and only then Joan noticed the scale. The realization of what was about to happen hit her hard, and she struggled against her bindings to no avail. "You have to listen! I don't know where your treasure is!" Panic was starting to cloud her reason.

"I don't believe you" Shan bellowed at her.

"You should, you know" echoed an unexpected voice in the tunnel. _Sherlock._

The following verbal sparring was somewhat lost on her, as the sandbag was lowering slowly but surely towards her impending impalement. _Damn, damn, damn!_ Trying to pull at least a hand out didn't appear possible, and she started to swing on the chair, trying to disbalance it. It was not an easy task, with ropes holding into place not only her hands and ankles, but also the upper body. There was the sound of familiar breathing behind her, and long fingers started to work on the knots. The sand dwindled faster. "Just get down, you idiot!" she hissed at Sherlock, eyes not leaving the arrowhead. There was a revolted grunt near her ear, and his hands moved faster. Then someone pulled him away, and she could hear the struggle. _Move, Watson. Move, dammit!_

Sherlock made a choked sound that did not bode well for either of them. Contorting her neck, Joan caught a glimpse of Liang the shadow killer strangling the detective with a red scarf. _Daaaaammmmmmmnn._

She put more energy into the chair swinging, finally making it budge. As it was, the killer was holding Sherlock just in the line of fire, so just getting herself down wouldn't solve the whole problem. Praying for a soft ground, Joan jerked and pulled, and the chair tipped down. Falling face first _again_ wasn't a funny thing. Though, in an unexpected twist of luck, one of the chair's legs broke, allowing her to push with more force against the ground.

Squirming like an eel, Joan got closer to the crossbow, and, disregarding completely her previous concussion, rammed the back of her head against one of its supports.

It made her see stars, but she continued, once, twice, until the contraption creaked and sagged, and the enormous arrow shot off with an ominous swish. There was a wet sound cutting through all noises around, and the thump of a body falling. Soo Lin's muffled sobs abruptly became muffled screaming that died down to pitiful whines.

Joan cracked an eyelid open, unsure of what she would see.

Liang laid on his back, the arrow protruding from his midsection. Sherlock was ripping off the red scarf, whizzing, but eyes alert and scanning their surroundings. _At least someone is functional_ , she thought glumly, eyes closed again. The headache she got for all these troubles was **monstrous**.

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His breathing back to normal, Sherlock shot up, eyes immediately following the disappearing silhouette of General Shan, who suddenly decided to be smart and get out before the party even finished. His first impulse was to give chase, but the quiet crying from Soo Lin reminded him of the current company. While the young woman was in no danger and sported only superficial injuries, his doctor was lying motionless on the ground, worryingly pale under a layer of dried blood.

"John?" Now that there was no urgency, he worked efficiently on the knots, freeing her wrists and ankles in less than three minutes. Joan looked up at him, eyes narrowed in pain.

 _Fact:_ _The tightness of ropes suggests probable cut of blood flow._ _Fact:_ _Unsteady breathing patterns._ _Fact:_ _Gash over the right ear (estimating angle of impact… attack from behind, previous assumption confirmed)._ _Conclusion:_ _Headache and residual muscular pain._

The doctor grumbled something unintelligible, and pushed herself up as soon as all ropes came undone. "Thanks" she said, blinking furiously against the dimming light and absently massaging her wrists.

Sherlock eyed the dried blood on her face and clothes skeptically. _Fact:_ _Concussion and blood loss are not favorable to normal motor functions._ _Fact:_ _John is stubborn._ "Can you stand?"

"Yeah" she grumbled, scratching her face with a grimace. It took her three attempts and some subtle help to get up, but she did stand up, eyes tightly shut, probably to control the upcoming nausea. The loss of equilibrium was not a pleasant experience in Sherlock's recollections.

He glanced wistfully in the direction the mob boss had disappeared. It was too late to follow; the trail was already cold and useless. He felt a pang of irritation creep amongst his thoughts. _He would not have missed that chance if he had worked alone._ But the voice of his younger self, usually ignored during investigations, reminded him gleefully that _he wouldn't have solved it in time if he had worked alone – there wouldn't have been a chance._ Well, two unconscious henchmen and a dead assassin still counted for something at least.

Being too busy commiserating with himself, Sherlock didn't notice when his live-in doctor shuffled towards the now silent tied-up informant. Soo Lin was staring at her brother's corpse, tears still running down her cheeks, head jerking weakly as if trying to shake away the image. Joan, good doctor that she was and used to traumatized patients, stood directly in her line of sight. "Soo Lin. It's over" she said softy, crouching down and hands starting to work on sloppy knots (they clearly applied themselves more to immobilize Watson). A couple of times her fingers slipped, eliciting a wince. _The blood flow in her appendages is restored, but the blow to the head hinders proper eye-hand coordination._ It finally snapped the detective from the silent observation ( _fascinating_ ) and into action.

With his help, the ropes came undone rather quickly, and the petite woman collapsing forward into Joan's awkward embrace. The doctor looked taken aback for a second, then her face softened and she rubbed circles into Soo Lin's trembling back. "It's over. You're alright. It's over" she repeated gently.

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Flashing lights were doing nothing to appease her migraine. Somehow, Joan had managed to clean the grime off her face before paramedics arrived, and to successfully fake relative health in front of them. They had guided the trembling Soo Lin to one of the ambulances, with Watson trailing slowly behind, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible while occasionally leaning on walls for support. Sherlock surely noticed, but he was too busy intimidating Dimmock to comment on it.

 _Doctors truly are the worst patients_ , she thought darkly. Had it been anyone else, she would have sedated them and dragged to a hospital for at least a full night observation. But she really hated being in a hospital bed. _Spending weeks with a hole in the shoulder and spiking fever had been enough_. _And it hadn't been a year yet._

Shivering in the night chill, Joan walked towards the small figure coated in orange shock blankets. "Hey." Dark eyes, blood-shot with tears and pain, gazed up at her. "It wasn't your fault, you know that?" she asked, since the girl would surely blame herself. Was already blaming herself for everything, even.

Joan painfully got on her knees before the young woman, a hand poised on her knee, partly in reassurance, partly to keep steady. "You've done nothing wrong." She could see the denial, the horror of seeing her brother violently killed in front of her. "He had made his choice long ago. It is terrible and unfair that he died, but would he have cried for you? He was coming to kill you." Fresh tears rained on the shock blanket. "You mourned him when you fled. You'll pull through this too."

Soo Lin inhaled a sob, but nodded weakly in response. Joan gave her a soft smile, patted her shoulder while getting up, and stumbled away, now certain there was nothing more for her to do.

"I go where you point me" she caught the end of the conversation of the pair standing near a police car.

"Exactly" Sherlock hummed smugly. _It should be illegal to be that proud of yourself after getting half-strangled._ The tall man seemed to notice her at last. Unfortunately, Dimmock did too. "Doctor Watson, are you alright?"

She stared at the DI, a tired frown settling in. "Yeah, just smashing."

Sherlock snorted in amusement. "We'll keep in touch, inspector." With that, he twirled his coat and swept away, clearly expecting Joan to follow. Seeing as Dimmock was growing more suspicious about smears on her collar and her general pale complexion, she hurried to do so. "Not so fast, Sherlock!"


	23. Chapter 23 - TBB - Stitches

Thank you for your reviews, follows and favs! :)

 **Disclaimer:** 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

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The flat was calm and peaceful, a stark contrast compared to the hectic crime scene they left behind. Sherlock made a beeline to the mirror without removing his coat, plucking photos off with flourish and letting them fall freely all over the floor.

"Right." Joan looked around, wobbling slightly. _I need a shower._

She tugged her dirty coat off, not daring to think about the dry-cleaning fee, somehow managed to remove shoes without falling down head first (once again), and had already made considerable progress towards the bathroom when her flatmate materialized at its door. Joan arched a tired eyebrow, then winced. Her head felt like one big bruise. All attempt at a facial expression hurt. "Can't I have dibs on the hot water tonight?"

The detective adopted a no-nonsense voice. "You have suffered a concussion. You should not be left alone on slippery surfaces." At first, she felt touched by the concern, before fully realized what the git implied.

"No" the soldier growled.

"But John…"

"You are not watching me in the shower!" _And I really hope there were no microphones to catch this particular dialogue either._ "No" she repeated forcedly, seeing as he made to argue. "Not negotiable. Out of my way." The man continued to scowl. Mellowing slightly, and cursing herself for it, Joan sighed. "I won't latch the door. If I fall, you have my permission to come in to help." It seemed to suffice, since the way to the long-awaited shower reopened at last.

 _Gooooood, it feels heavenly._ Joan was soaking under the warm stream, the rusty red hue of blood in the water fading to usual transparency by the minute. Her thoughts cleared a little, but the dizziness stayed. _Hydration and sleep._ _Call Stamford for a CT scan first thing in the morning. Two wake-up calls in the night, will have to note the times and perceived condition somewhere._ The mental to-do list grew a little too long for her current state, and she switched her attention back to the cooling water.

Wrapped in the fluffy bathrobe, Joan sat on the closed toilet lid, slowly massaging the towel over her hair. The condensation twisted around her, lulling her senses into sleep. The yawn pulled her skin, causing the freshly scabbed gash over the right ear to split open again with a sting. "Damn" she muttered under her breath. Wiping the mirror clean, the medic assessed the damage.

Her dirty blond hair was still short, merely falling over her ears in a clumsy bowl cut, allowing an easy access to the injury, and for once she felt vaguely grateful for the hairstyle her sister imposed on her ( _bowl cut, really, Harry, that's your best shot?_ ). The wound definitely needed stitches. Sighing, Joan pried open the cupboard under the sink with her left foot and was about to search for her medi-kit, when the door flew open, letting in a gust of cool air and a scowling Sherlock who had finally shed his coat and even changed his shirt. "Jesus, Sherlock!"

He strode in the small space, gently pushing her back to sit on the closed lid, and knelt in ominous silence. After some fumbling in the darkest recess of the cupboard ( _who knew what_ _ **he**_ _kept in there_ ), he produced the small toiletry bag in which she stored some basic medical equipment. _I am too tired to play games._ "What are you doing?"

"You need stitches."

"Yes, and I am more than able to do them myself."

His eyes flared for a second before he rumbled in a bored tone: "You haven't slept for over thirty hours, except that thirty-minutes nap in the Tube." _Damn, of course he noticed_. "Not the worst you have done, presumably, given your previous occupations, but you never roamed the town with a concussion for so long. Your senses are dulled, and you are still dizzy, evident by the unstable stance and frequent blinking – trying to reassert spatial coordination. Your hands are steady – which is remarkable by the way – but you are not in a proper state to guide them to do the right thing, not even to undo knots, let alone for a simple medical procedure. I, on the other hand, have full use of my capacities and have been fully trained in field medicine." At her very disbelieving huff, he amended: "I had some practice."

Joan peered at the man in thought. There was no doubt he was capable of doing a couple of stitches, she had gathered as much from the bits and pieces he sometimes let on about his previous cases. Having noticed a long, thin faded scar on his left calf once, which had clearly been self-medicated, concurred to this assumption. However, he was displaying an unusual level of concern, and it nagged at her. _Is it an experiment? Is he genuinely worried? If so, what should_ _ **I**_ _deduce about this self-proclaimed sociopath?_ It felt like too much thought for the moment, though. "If you disfigure me, your coat is going to get it" she sighed in defeat and tilted her head to the side.

Surprisingly gentle fingers ghosted over her temple, fixing the damp hair aside with a hairclip. A wet cotton pressed on the cut, burning with disinfectant. She didn't hiss. _It isn't really pain_. Then a cool swap of anesthetic balm, and all touches became dulled in that area.

Sherlock worked in silence, intent and efficient. It took him less than five minutes to apply the three stitches, disinfect again and lean back to admire his work. "You can use my room tonight" he said over his shoulder while storing away the med-kit. "Stairs are not recommended in your condition, and it'd be easier to wake you every hour for check-up."

"Twice a night should be ok, though." She wanted to protest more, but the suggestion was sensible. "I'll call Mike to arrange a CT scan next morning."

They exited to the hallway, and Joan was only half-surprised to have her pajamas tossed at her. "I'll text him now" Sherlock announced, and disappeared in the living room. Shrugging, the very tired woman dragged her feet to the nearby room, and without bothering to change collapsed on the bed. She was asleep seconds after her head touched the pillow.

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Sherlock found her snoring softly half-seated, half-sprawled on the side of his bed, pajamas cradled with one hand against the chest, and bathrobe slipping dangerously from one shoulder. Snorting in amused surprise, he gently pulled her legs on the bed and covered her with several blankets. A bottle of water was positioned on the floor near the bed. _After all, it wouldn't do to lose the person who managed to occasionally feed him._ _Plus, the prolonged stay of the ex-army doctor confused Mycroft to no end, which was just delightful._

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Her sleep was restless, incoherent dreams nagging at her with a foreboding sense of loss and lateness. She vaguely remembered Sherlock waking her up two times, silver eyes glinting in the semi-darkness of the room, asking her simple questions ("How old are you?", "Where did you train?", "Where do you live?"). Around seven o'clock, ingrained training kicked in, and Joan woke up. Unfamiliar surroundings had been confusing ( _and worrying_ ) at first, before the brain came back online, and she relaxed, glancing around curiously.

Sherlock's room was unexpectedly tidy. There was no chaos which defined their common space, no papers or clothes lying around in heaps and piles. _You can even see the floor, wow._ Heavy dark green curtains were half-drawn, and sunrise's warm light filtered through small cracks. His sheets smelled nice, she noted absently, trying to determine if the small spot on the wall over her head was grease or paint. _Well, the man is the synonym of wealthy, despite needing a flatshare. Rich boys and trust fund problems, I don't even want to know._ There were no photos or small souvenirs, except for a large Mendeleev's table on the farthest wall and strangely enough five colorful pins in a smallish glass case.

Rolling over to sit up, Joan gingerly touched her head. The right side was tender. Overall, she still felt sluggish and clammy. _Well, maybe you should have changed into pajamas before falling asleep, John_ , a small disapproving voice whined in her mind. She ignored it in favor of stretching sore muscles and taking a large gulp of water from the helpful bottle at her feet.

"Ah, you're up." The silky baritone from the doorway made her startle.

"Yeah" she replied, pretending they both didn't notice it. "Morning."

"Stamford slotted you for a CT scan at ten. You have time to shower and change, and Mrs Hudson will bring the breakfast up soon." He disappeared in the hallway as suddenly as he came.

"Sherlock!" Joan called out. The mop of unruly hair popped back in. Unsure of how to express the fondness and the gratitude she was currently feeling towards the man, she simply smiled (it might have come out a little too tired). "Thank you." He just huffed off-handedly in reply.

She was in the shower, juggling the bottle of shower gel while trying to not wet the stitches, when Sherlock shouted from behind the door: "Hillary?"

 _What?... Oh, for God's sake…!_ "GO AWAY!"


	24. Chapter 24 - The colleague

Thank you for your reviews! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

 **Warning:** A lot of angry people in this one, so some swearing was in order.

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Lestrade had known Sherlock Holmes for years. From the junkie stumbling onto a crime scene with a miracle solution to the arrogant genius in an expensive coat, he'd seen him change, grow walls and experience, and generally be an arse to everyone around. He cared for him, in a way… didn't want him to fall back to drugs, that's for sure, so he tried to give him a focus, a bone to gnaw, a case to solve, whenever possible. But he was always kept at a distance. Maybe he hadn't tried hard enough. Maybe he hadn't known how to breach that awkward silence between them. Or maybe he just assumed that Sherlock didn't need any relationship beyond professional ("Never assume" as the git loved to say).

And then Joan Watson came and tore down the walls ("She's with me"). Suddenly, he was faced with his own unintended callousness, when the unassuming woman bestowed sincere praise and admiration upon Sherlock, and the younger man basked in it. They could yell and threaten for hours to get an explanation from the consulting headache, but a couple of words from Watson, and Holmes was spilling his whole thought process with minimum verbal abuse. It was astounding, to say the least.

Greg popped up at Baker Street the afternoon after the serial suicides grisly resolution, intending to get Sherlock's statement firsthand. Instead, the DI was treated to the previously unheard sound of Sherlock's laughter. Absolutely stunned, he stepped into the cluttered living room, to find the skinny detective draped over a chair in an expensive-looking dressing gown ( _why all of his clothes look expensive?_ ), facing the blond woman from the previous night, who snickered behind a mug. Sherlock actually greeted him cordially (read – without disparaging his intelligence within the first sentence). And Joan gave him a warm, if a bit nervous, smile and a cup of excellent tea.

He came by Baker Street more often after that (the tea was really good).

Joan very quickly established herself as Sherlock's handler (colleague, Holmes said). Most of the Yard wondered what was the deal with those two, but they generally ignored the pair until they needed Holmes's brains. They assumed Joan was a harmless doctor with a masochistic streak who pined for the resident dark and mysterious psychopath. Lestrade felt like the only one who saw the humor and the silent strength in Watson's smile. He was rather delighted to find an unexpected ally in Dimmock who got a crash course in Managing Mad Consultants 101 on one of his first murder cases. The two DIs sometimes shared stories together in the break room, agreeing that Watson wasn't technically a sane person, but they'd rather have her at Baker Street than anywhere else.

Then somehow the consulting pair ended up being present near the site of a jewelry store robbery turned hostage situation with a death toll, and now they were all chasing the pair of attackers across the streets. Holmes and his thrice-damned long legs brought him to the front of the chase, with surprisingly Donovan just behind. Watson and himself were in tow, with the rest of police force miserably failing to keep up. Both offenders sprinted into an old building, and Greg swore vehemently.

They climbed the stairs as fast as possible, and practically flew up the last story when they heard Sally shout "Stop!". Lestrade nearly fell out the door, getting pushed by Watson. His eyes immediately found his sergeant, who stood near the ledge, trying to aim her weapon at the other building … where Sherlock bloody Holmes was fighting their two robbers. Those madmen had jumped the two-meters gap to the other building. "F..." he almost swore again, catching his breath and trying to come up with a way to help Sherlock. He could hear several of his own men down the stairs, panting with effort. They were so hitting the gym after that…

A choking noise came from the other roof, and Sally yelled unconvincingly "Stop or I shoot!" Sherlock was being currently strangled in a choke-hold by one of the assailants, while the other took up a steel bar from the ground. Before he could even react, a blond blur rushed past him and flew over the ledge. Without stopping, Watson tackled the guy who started to swing the heavy bar around, rolling easily with the fall. She must have done something else, hidden from view, because there was an ominous crack and the man didn't get up. His comrade backed up, dragging Sherlock with him as living shield, and screaming obscenities. Joan slowly stood up, glaring silently at him. Greg couldn't be sure with the distance, but Sherlock seemed to turn a little grey from the lack of air.

Joan said something, they didn't hear with the wind howling and the blood trumping in their ears (he asked her afterwards, and she smiled coldly before simply replying "Scared?"), and the robber roared, dropping Sherlock to the ground and charging towards her. Sally shot her gun, once, twice, missing the target. Greg rushed to the ledge, ready to jump himself, because there was no way this small woman, a doctor who limped badly not a month before, could take on this raging bull. And then she dodged, or more like side-stepped the attack, and delivered a roundhouse kick to the man's kidneys. The robber stumbled, and fell to his knees, and Watson immediately followed with another kick to his neck, successfully knocking him out.

She stood still for a moment, looking down at her fallen assailants, her face reminding the DI of a bird of prey in its intensity. Lestrade heard someone mumble "Bloody hell" behind him, realizing that the rest of the team finally managed to get up there. Sally was staring wide-eyed at the scene. Then Watson's face softened to her usual expression, and she skidded on her knees near the panting form of the consulting detective, hands flying to check his vitals and guide him into a recovery position.

After that incident, Yarders became painfully aware that Dr Joan Watson had also been a soldier. And that she now fought for Sherlock Holmes. Insults and jabs significantly decreased on crime scenes.

 _ **linebreak linebreak linebreak**_

It had been a very long time ( _two weeks!_ ) since Sherlock had such an entertaining day. It hadn't started right though, he began to go spare with boredom even before sunrise. In an attempt to alleviate the insufferable assault of peacefulness, he had started cracking the strongbox in which Joan kept her service weapon, but was busted by her before succeeding. To thwart any further slightly illegal experiments he could and would come up with, the ex-solider dragged him by the ear (quite literally at some point) to an appliances store, supposedly to replace the micro-waves destroyed in the 'exploding eyeballs' incident a couple of days prior.

Luckily, they never made it inside the store. The neighboring jeweler was being conveniently robbed, and the two trigger-happy thieves managed to break through the police ranks. Of course, they took off after them. There had been a slight miscalculation on his part when the men overpowered him and were about to brain him with a steel bar, but that's when the highlight of the day actually happened - Joan Watson joined the fray. It took her all but three minutes ( _two minutes eighteen seconds_ ) to effectively neutralize both offenders and start to provide first-aid to the winded detective while muttering under her breath about crazy idiots who should wait for back-up.

Sherlock grinned and fished out two zip-ties from his pocket. Joan's sigh was positively world-weary.

By the time the police relocated from the first building to the roof where all action happened, Sherlock was on the receiving end of a surprisingly informative rant about hand-to-hand combat against a superior number of opponents and the importance of "bloody waiting for goddamn back-up". Officers mulled around, giving them weird looks, and a couple blushing rookies who couldn't tear their eyes off Joan were hovering uncertainly near the staircase. _Fanboys. Ugh._ "John."

"… and even then, you should never try to…" she trailed off, finally aware of the growing audience. "What?"

"I left the stove on."

She appeared only mildly annoyed by that fact. "Why would you do that?"

Sherlock threw her a bemused glare while dusting off his coat. "Measuring the speed of vaporization of different diluted paints in domestic conditions, of course."

People around them backed away when Joan suddenly emitted an animalistic growl. "You're telling me there is paint boiling unsupervised in our kitchen."

"It's for science, John!"

"I'm going to shave your head while you sleep." The threat was said in a steely voice that left little doubt about the ex-soldier's intentions. _Note to self:_ _Not consume anything John prepares in the next two days, and avoid sleeping in easily accessible locations._ He didn't get pulled by the ear again, but it was a close thing, judging by Joan's reddened face and tightly clenched jaw.

The paint had almost entirely boiled out, and the flat was full of toxic vapors ( _Update to experiment file 122.1.A :_ _do not attempt without a protective gas mask_. _Creating experiment file 122.2_ _– toxicity of paint fumes and their impact on human lungs_ ). Bent in half, they ran to pull windows wide open and turn off the fire, coughing heavily in the foul fog. Sherlock pulled out tweezers to collect some samples of the residue, but was interrupted by a very irate medic dragging him back to the window. "You can tinker all you want when there is no danger of poisoning or creating a fireball" she said, and given the iron grip on his forearm he had no choice in that matter.

They sat in silence on the window ledge, backs pressed against the cold railing, constant humming of cars and crowds rolling over them and into the flat. It was boring. Sherlock started to fidget impatiently almost immediately ( _twenty-eight seconds_ ) after sitting down. Joan took several deep breaths of the fresh air before glancing at him again: "Fifteen minutes at least, Sherlock. We can just talk meanwhile."

"Small talk? Really, John."

"I'm not the one conducting dubious experiments in the kitchen!" Apparently, it was too soon to be petulant around Watson without making her explode again. Sherlock raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Alright, Doctor. What do you want to talk about?"

It seemed to appease her for the moment. "Dunno." She dropped her head back, gaze lost in the greyish clouds outside. "Did you hear about one of Mars Rovers having ceased communications?"

Flaring a potential case, Sherlock perked up: "No. Is there a search? Any suspects?"

"Search?" Now Joan sounded vaguely confused. "It exceeded its lifetime by six years after landing. Why would they even try to repatriate it?"

"Landing?"

"Yeah, on Mars."

"Never heard of it."

"Are you kidding me?" Joan sat up straight and fully turned towards her flatmate with a deep frown.

For once, however, Sherlock was absolutely sincere: "I assure you that my pranks are of better quality." _Mars… Isn't it a candy? Probably a namesake. Then a country?..._

"You never heard of Mars. The planet Mars." Her fingers twitched on her lap. _Wants to check my temperature. Suspects fever, perhaps substance intake. Is this Mars-thing important?_

"Planet? No. What's its deal?"

"It's the closest planet to Earth in the Solar system, you know. [1]" _Oh, just trivia then. Delete._

"Solar system? Never heard of it either."

"Are you serious?!"

 _*_ ( _[1]_ : It isn't actually. Venus is the closest planet to Earth. But Joan isn't expert, is she now?) _*_

 _ **linebreak linebreak linebreak**_

Sally Donovan was proud of her work. She was a professional, a trained officer, and she was goddamn proud of it. She also liked the attention of men, and considered it an achievement to have kept it while climbing up ranks. That's why she accepted the situation with Anderson. Him being a good shag was an argument in his favor too, though.

Sherlock Holmes was a bloody menace, in her opinion. She had been a constable when the man first popped up at a crime scene, high as a kite, rambling about mud and stabbing angles. Lestrade apparently had understood something from this madness, as he didn't lock the junkie up, but cajoled an emergency contact from him and sent him home. The stabbing angle had been used during the court case.

The young man became a semi-permanent feature of gruesome cases after that. In the beginning, she was skeptical. Then curious. And in the end, **furious** , because the man reduced their primary witness, a frail old lady (who ended up being the poisoner), to tears and when confronted about it, spilled Sally's personal life for all to hear, including how her father always wanted a boy and how she was cheating on her boyfriend (who was in the same room with them and broke up with her in the wake of this scene). She swore to bring the asshole down after that.

Years passed, and Holmes stayed around. She took evil pleasure in insulting and generally making him uncomfortable whenever he showed up. Maddeningly, he always came up with a stinging revelation to announce to all and sundry. At least, he was insufferable to everyone, and thus they all rallied against him.

When he showed up with a limping woman in tow, Sally didn't pay much attention to the "colleague". Strange people came and went around Holmes. When the woman, Watson, showed up at the shooting scene the same evening, whispering and giggling with Holmes, Sally just frowned, too busy to think about the weirdness of it all. When Watson kept on living together with the freak, tailing him around, and being generally mild and friendly, Sally pitied the poor girl who lost her marbles.

When Joan Watson jumped fearlessly from the ledge to take out almost effortlessly two grown men, Sally realized how wrong she had been. Watching the predatory gleam fade from the soldier's eyes to be replaced with a genuine concern for the man all the Yard scorned, sergeant Donovan put down a memo in her mind to never aggravate this woman ( _fighter_ )any more than necessary. Watson was with Holmes, and she was there to stay.

 _ **linebreak linebreak linebreak**_

Joan came home around eleven, smells of fried fish and beer clinging to her jumper. She shrugged off her coat, and looked at Sherlock with a calculating glint in her eyes. The consulting detective looked up from his laptop, intrigued by the silence. "Your brother is a miracle worker" she finally said.

"Excuse me?" He certainly didn't expect that one.

"I've had the questionable pleasure of listening to drunk police officers explain why they hate you so much."

Wondering how exactly the night in the pub came around this particular topic, Sherlock prodded her to go on with a simple "Oh?"

Joan smirked, edging towards her chair. "And I'm surprised nobody strangled you yet. Mycroft's security team must be working themselves ragged."

"Details, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, frustrated with the lack of information. He couldn't improve without identifying the nature of the problem, right?

The ex-soldier smiled openly and went on explaining how people might be a little sensitive about their personal stories being pulled to the light in front of everyone.

 _ **linebreak linebreak linebreak**_

Philip Anderson was a man of method and rules. His work place was always pristine, and he knew how things worked around him. That's why Holmes's intrusions in his routine were so irritating. The man challenged his findings, his meticulous work, and based on what? On some flimsy observations! After some time, he recognized talent, however. There was a method behind the man's ramblings, they just weren't privy to it.

He was eager to share the experience, but Holmes just discarded him, continuously shooting down his ideas and treating the whole forensic department as a bunch of morons. It was so not on. Instinctively, he joined forces with Sally Donovan, just as frustrated by the freak's attitude as him. And plus, she was hot.

When Dr Watson started to hang around Holmes, Philip didn't really listen to crazy rumors circulating around the Yard. Holmes didn't respond to his, Anderson's, overtures of professional discussion, it was simply not possible that he would actually explain and brainstorm his deductions with some washed-up GP. He was a little revolted by the general change in attitude towards Watson after some violent robbery incident. Apparently, the woman had subdued two criminals and then proceeded to provide first aid to a half-strangled Holmes. He suspected the version currently told in the office was heavily romanced and exaggerated.

Fortunately for him, it wasn't.

He found it out the hard way, on the day Sherlock barged in their lab, Watson and Lestrade in tow, to arrest one of his interns who had supposedly tampered with evidence incriminating his brother in a murder attempt. It seemed ridiculous, and he loudly said so, just before the intern in question grabbed a scalpel and charged.

Anderson screamed, stumbling backwards, but there was not much space in a lab to avoid the blade. Someone tugged him violently by the collar, and he found himself on his arse, looking up at Joan Watson calmly disarming the attacker and twisting his arm behind his back, scalpel clinking innocently on the tiled floor. The pressure on his collar released, and Holmes swept forward, handing out handcuffs to secure the man, with an admonishing "Five seconds" towards the doctor.

"Have you seen the space? I can barely move in here" she answered airily, not even out of breath.

Anderson had to reconsider his opinions on Dr Watson after that. He certainly didn't want to find himself on her wrong side now.

 _ **linebreak linebreak linebreak**_

Joan was peacefully typing an email to Harry, with Sherlock playing an obscure violin piece in the background, when the man suddenly stopped. "Harley?"

"Shut up" the blond replied without looking away from the screen. Behind her, Sherlock huffed in irritation and resumed playing.

 _ **linebreak linebreak linebreak**_

 **A/N:** I was thinking how the whole solar system conversation came to be in the series, and this is what I ended up with. Also, please excuse any errors with the paint experiment. My last chemistry class was about twelve years ago.

And thanks to Quesito2015 for "Harley" ;)


	25. Chapter 25 - TGG - The bored detective

Not dead! Sorry for the wait. Enjoy.

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

 **# #**

"John!" Sarah poked her head in Joan's office. "We're going out for a coffee after closing, want to come with us?"

"Yeah, sure!" the doctor answered, trying painstakingly to type out her notes on the last patient of the day. It had been a slow couple of days at home, and she took on an additional shift to keep herself busy. Especially since the stitches from their stint in the tramway den came out and she couldn't make more excuses for procrastinating.

"Great, in ten minutes?"

"Deal." Finishing up with the file, Joan dialed Sherlock's number while shrugging on the jacket. It rang three times before the man picked up. "Hey, I'm going to be late. Going out with colleagues. Do you need anything? I could swing by Tesco's after that."

"No. I'll text you if anything comes to mind." There was a loud crowd noise in the background.

"Where are you?" Joan fumbled with her keys and phone, but managed to lock the door without dropping anything.

"Airport. A client's family paying me the trip to Belarus where he supposedly didn't kill his girlfriend." The baritone practically dripped with sarcasm.

Joan smirked. "It sounds promising. Have fun."

"See you later, John."

Sarah and Karen, the receptionist, were already waiting for her in the hall. "Ready when you are" Joan smiled at them, pocketing the phone. They took her to a nearby tea-shop, that had some fancy bubble-teas brews (which Joan eyed suspiciously) and rare coffee blends (which gave a strong aroma that could wake up the dead). While her colleagues went for what was presumptuously called tea around here, Joan chose a simple ristretto. _Better safe than sorry_ , she thought eyeing the colorful blend in her colleagues' cups.

"So, how come you're free today, John?" Karen asked when they were finally seated in a lovely booth by the window. "You're always rushing out like there is a fire somewhere."

She was sorely tempted to answer that _yeah, sometimes there is a fire AND fireworks in my kitchen_ , but stayed with a neutral: "My flatmate is out. I help him a bit with his work, and trust me, the clinic is a respite after this."

Sarah snorted behind her mug. "You said that mundane is good at your interview."

"Yeah, it's good to breathe once in a while."

"What are you doing then with that flatmate?"

"Oh, it's… detective work, basically. He's a sort of private detective. Very selective one, at that, taking only interesting cases. Don't ask what is interesting by his standards, I'm still figuring it out. But he's brilliant."

They didn't go further into the subject, and the discussion stirred towards gossip and cooking tips. Joan wasn't very used to this type of conversations, but she left the tea-shop feeling content. _Normal is nice. I could do with normal,_ she thought while trying not to fall asleep on the Tube (again). Her imagination supplied an overview of days going by, all similar one to another, home-work-home routine settling in, everything so stable and predictable. She mentally shuddered. _That'd be atrocious._ _Yeah, let's stick to madness._

It felt odd to find the flat silent. And free of any smells or suspicious stains. Well, at least nothing apparent. Joan plopped into her chair, feeling vaguely lonely and bored. She briefly entertained the idea of getting the next plane to Minsk, but remembered the current state of her personal finances and the lack of visa in her passport. _Why does Sherlock have a visa to Belarus anyway? Wait, never mind. Mycroft, of course._

The evening went by quietly, with the ex-soldier typing out a new blog entry at a very slow pace. Her dominant left hand was usually feeling numb after a working day. She knew she'd never get back the full sensitivity, and certainly not the full motion range, but tried to push the limits as much as possible, so it was not very noticeable in the day-to-day life. Unfortunately, she had never been one for computers, and her fingers felt exceptionally sluggish over the keyboard.

Around eight o'clock, her stomach emitted a low grumble, indicating that coffee isn't the only fuel it needed to keep her functional. The fridge presented a desolate picture of empty shelves and containers full of inedible things. Cupboards weren't much better. Defeated, Joan meandered down the stairs, hoping that Mrs Hudson would be home and in the mood to have a hungry companion for the evening.

 **# #**

Next day had only a morning shift at the clinic, that went by without a hitch. However, Joan was slightly surprised to get a call from Harry when her last patient walked out. "Hello, stranger! Are you finally answering my calls?"

Joan sighed internally. _Five seconds and she's already blaming me for something._ "I never ignored your calls, sis."

"You never called me back either."

"I've been busy, you know. Moving, getting a job, things."

"Yeah, I read your blog, John. Can you spare a lunch for your lovely sister in that busy schedule of yours?"

 _I don't want to. I really should. What a drag…_ "Yes, sure. Today?"

"Peeeeerfect! See you at that Italian place near Bond Street station in an hour."

"But I'm at w…" Silence. "Harry? You hang up, didn't you?" _Here goes my plan of doing nothing._

Her recollections of London restaurants were sketchy at best, and she was late by ten minutes when Harry spotted her on the sidewalk and pounced on her with the force of a vicious cannonball. "Ooof." Joan's shoulder creaked in protest. "Nice to see you too, sis" she groaned, while disentangling limb by limb from the skinny blond woman. The older Watson looked good, considering her well-known bad habits with alcohol. Her clothes were fresh and ironed, her grey eyes were not tinged with red, and her hair was done in a cute bun. Perhaps it was temporary, but Harriet was doing well.

"You should call more often." Harry retorted, looking completely unapologetic. "Maybe I wouldn't be so inclined to hug the life out of you."

Rolling her eyes at the big-sisterly act, Joan led the way into the restaurant. It was a nice place, but the doctor immediately decided that Angelo's was better. _I'm biased and I don't care_. The plate of pasta was quite decent, and Harry just kept chatting about her job, her nasty coworkers, her landlord, more about gossipy coworkers, and a little about the new Chanel spring collection. Not a word about Clara or the state she had been in when Joan had finally gotten out of the hospital. There was just a sheepish smile when their order ended up having nothing stronger than a coke on it. Joan settled for nodding and making appropriate noises at the right places; secretly hoping that the conversation would not stray into dangerous waters.

"… and then her heel just broke. It was awful, we barely managed to find some glue."

"Sounds like hell" Joan answered sincerely. _Heels are a torture contraption from hell anyway._

"And so, tell me about your roomie."

The unexpected inquiry made Joan choke on a bite of bread and cough violently. "Wha?" she croaked through pained tears. "Why?"

"Because he's living with my baby sister and he seems like bad news! I have to give him the Talk."

"No, you don't."

"Convince me."

"I'm not a child, Harry. Sherlock isn't getting me into anything I don't want to do."

Harry's expression darkened and she absently ran a finger over her glass's ridge. "I thought you were done with risking your life."

Joan sighed. "Harry…"

"No, listen to me, Joan." _Ow, the name calling._ "You spent years galivanting around the world, and finally getting bloody shot for your troubles." Harry's glare was burning holes into Joan's shoulder. The ex-soldier felt her temper rising in response. _I didn't exactly go looking for that sniper._ "Haven't you done enough? Why do you need to do this public service thing with a sketchy guy?"

"I wasn't 'galivanting' as you call it, **Harriet**. I was serving the country, and I would have continued without any regret if I could." Joan's voice was kept under tight control, but anger spiked through the words. "What I am doing now is not up for discussion."

Her sister was looking at her wide-eyed, mouth agape. "Do you have to be so damn noble all the time?" she hissed back at her, a frown settling in. "Why am **I** the bad one for worrying about you?"

 _Because_ _ **you**_ _worry me more than Sherlock does,_ Joan thought, but instead said: "What I'm saying, is that I don't need my choices questioned at every turn. I'm still trying to get past my discharge, you know."

"And you do that by running around the town after serial killers, apparently!" They started being rather loud at that point, and other patrons were glancing at them with curiosity and disapproval in their eyes. Somewhat understanding Harry's point and really not wanting to make a scene, Joan visibly deflated.

"Look, I am fine. I'm working as a GP in a clinic. I keep myself busy. Nothing dangerous, more time spent thinking and talking than having showdowns with criminals. It is not like a movie or anything." _Well, there is also a lot of running and fighting involved, but I'll just keep this under wraps for now._

Harry stared at her heatedly for a moment, before taking a sip of her coke. "You are a nightmare, John. I'll have white hair and it will be your fault."

Feeling like the storm had passed, Joan offered a small smile. "I'll pay for your hair products then."

"Nah, I can have some good samples free at work." Harry eyed judgmentally her sister's worn brown cardigan. "You should come shopping with me someday. It's a shame to you hide yourself under… **this**." She poked her perfectly manicured finger at the checkered shirt under the cardigan.

Joan raised her hands in a defensive gesture. "I feel better in this. Besides, it's freezing in London."

"You could model, you know." The glint in Harry's eyes could have been predatory if it weren't so mocking. "High fashion digs ex-military models right now. Makes good money too."

 _The horror._ "Hell, no! Don't even think about it."

"Peace, sister. Your time will come."

They left shortly after, and parted on relatively good terms. Harry in a good mood was a fun person to be around. That's why Joan felt so disappointed and pained when faced with her sister's drinking problem. _It was always such a waste._

All the talk about her previous careers left a bad aftertaste. Walking home seemed like a good idea to clear her head, but unfortunately it just made it worse. She kept dwelling on whatever memories remained of the day the bullet found her. "Doctors aren't supposed to go on frontlines" the sergeant said at the training camp. "If you die, who'd bring us home?" Bill joked one day, pulling her back to the cover. Did she listen? _Not very often._ It was raining bullets, fire crackling on the wrecked wood, and people were falling, stricken, on both sides. _Find them. Help them. Get them out._ It was her mantra on the field. She couldn't remember the face of the kid she was trying to treat when an arrow of pain ripped through her. The world kept swirling chaotically around her, while she fell face first in the dirt, bleeding out. There was this horrible noise, this blend of shouts, pleas and gunfire, that kept ringing in her ears until the hospital finally spat her into the London's bleak sunlight months later.

A bit depressed, Joan dragged her feet up the couple of steps to the front door, and slowly tugged off her jacket once inside.

BANG! BANG!

The gunshots made her blood run cold. BANG!

Adrenaline rushed through the veins, and Joan leapt up the stairs, not even thinking about the potential danger. BANG! The source of the racket revealed itself to be her own flatmate, sprawled on a chair, a gun dangling from his hand. _When did he get back?_ she thought absently while shouting in anger: "What the **hell** are you doing?!"

"Bored" came the (un)expected reply.

" **What**?"

"Bored!" the madman shouted, jumping up, gun in hand.

"Wait, n…" Before she could finish her warning, the gun fired again and again, punctuated by angry proclamations of boredom. Joan clasped her hands tightly over her ears, nails digging into the scalp, eyes shut. The noise struck her more than it should have, but her early reminiscences were still fresh and nagging. The thrice damned buzz of voices and dry cracks, that haunted her during recovery, made a guest reappearance, and she was fighting it back with grim determination.

A light touch brushed against her right hand, and she released a breath she didn't remember holding. Sherlock was standing way too close, head cocked to the side in a cat-like curiosity. "Was it necessary to take it on the wall?" she asked in a dull voice, pointedly avoiding the sharp gaze.

"The wall had it coming" the man smiled, maybe a little sheepish. Getting back her bearings, Joan yanked the weapon from his hand and slid the clip out.

"You are paying for the ammo" she informed him matter-of-factly, heading to the safe box where the gun was supposed to be safely stored. An impatient huff was her only response, and Sherlock shuffled lazily to the sofa, admiring his handiwork. _Why do I even bother…?_ "What about that Russian case?"

The detective let himself fall flat on the sofa, the furniture creaking indignantly under his weight. "Belarus." Expressive sigh. "Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Oh, poor you" Joan commiserated sarcastically. She wasn't particularly hungry, but the tea sounded like a plan. "Do we have milk?" she asked, making a beeline to the fridge.

A pair of dead eyes stared at her from the shelf. _F… Am I hallucinating now?_ Joan stared at the fridge door, that she violently slammed a second earlier. Gingerly pulling it open again, she was confronted by the same pair of eyes. "It's a head." The words rolled easily off her tongue. It sounded real enough. "A severed head."

"No milk for me, thanks" Sherlock's voice rumbled from the living room.

A little dazed, Joan got out of the kitchen, half-expecting to be taken to a mental institution in a few minutes. "There's an actual human head in the fridge."

"Yes." _Yes?! It is a real head. He put a bloody head in our fridge._

Her mouth decided to voice the last thought: "A bloody head!"

"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" grumbled the resident biological hazard on the sofa. "You don't mind, do you?" The fake concern was simply appalling. "I go it from Bart's morgue." _Yeah, who else would let you take a_ _ **damn head**_ _home? Molly really should stop indulging him._ Joan shook her own head in silent despair. "I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death" Sherlock continued to drone.

"I'm sure the scientific world is impatiently waiting for the results" she muttered under her breath, sagging into her chair, the thought of tea forgotten. The mad genius ignored her comments, and waved at an open laptop instead.

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case."

 _A change of subject. Great._ "Yeah."

"A Study in Pink. Nice."

There was something slightly malicious in his voice now. Not quite seeing what her flatmate was getting at, Joan answered genuinely: "Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone… there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

The detective was now too busy pretending to read a magazine to look her in the eyes. "Erm…No."

 _Oh?_ "Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."

"Flattered?" Now the man looked offended, glaring daggers at her. "Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things." _Oh, that part._

"Hey, I didn't mean that in a…"

"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a **nice** way. Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister…" Joan stared at him in silence while he kept ranting, hands flailing around to emphasize his point. "… or who's sleeping with who…"

"Whether the Earth goes round the Sun" she decided to quip in.

A flash of resigned irritation passed on Sherlock's face. "Not that again. It is not important."

"It's primary school staff! **How** can you not know that?!" _He did go to school, didn't he?_

Holmes groaned, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. "Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

 _Huh?_ "Deleted it?"

A razor-sharp glare focused on her. "Listen. This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful ... **really** useful." _Looks like it is not the first time he had to explain this._ "Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

She couldn't help herself. "But it's the solar system!"

"Oh, hell! What does it matter? So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots." He punctuated his angry tirade with more angry gestures and proceeded to glare at her with a petulant pout. _Strangely irritating and adorable at the same time,_ Joan's brain supplied unhelpfully, while she was silently gaping in the wake of the outburst. "Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world."

The doctor glared at the sulking back for a good twenty seconds, before deciding that bad temper wasn't a monopoly in this flat and she had the right to sulk too. She pushed herself up, and marched to the coat hanger. "Where are you going?" came a surprised question from the sofa.

"Shopping. I need bullets to effectively threaten you into behaving" she replied ominously, eliciting an indignant snort from the man-child. Judging by the lack of further comments, he might have considered the threat in the realm of possible.

She passed Mrs Hudson on the stairs, exchanging brief pleasantries before heading out. Her feet took her towards the park, wondering where a moderately-sketchy ammunition dealer could be found in London at short notice. Going to her old army contacts was out of question with the older Holmes watching her every move (or at least she assumed he was).

The aimless wandering was cut short by a low rumble that shook the neighborhood. People stopped and looked around in confusion. Joan paled. _A building crumbling after an explosion._ It seemed to come from the general direction of Baker Street. Her heart missing a beat, Joan took off running, panic slowly rising in her gut. Luckily, she didn't get too far from the flat, and was on site in three minutes flat. The street was covered in rubble, the building facing 221 gutted by the blast. _The windows. Oh God, the windows must have been blown in. If Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were still in the living room… Oh God. Oh God, please…_

She practically teleported to the doorstep, missing the keyhole two times before tearing the door open. Taking two steps at the time, she flew up to the flat where faint voices could be heard and slid on the landing, barely catching herself on the doorframe.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of broken glass, bare-footed, but looking relatively fine. Martha was holding a broom, also unharmed. Both looked up, startled at Joan's entrance. She stared back, panting from the effort and sagging in obvious relief. "We're alright" Sherlock said softly. She nodded weakly, gaze falling upon the numerous shards strewn across the floor.

"Don't move, I'll fetch you some shoes."

A couple of minutes later, Joan made sure that Mrs Hudson was fine and made Sherlock change into clothes that weren't dotted with microscopic shards. Her med kit in hand, she got outside again, just as the sirens were starting to blare in the distance.

 **# #**

 **A/N:** Thanks to everyone who followed/reviewed since the last chapter! I didn't drop the fic, as you can see. And I even managed to write Harry... believe me, she didn't want to come and play.

For those who still wonder about Joan's middle name, Sherlock will find out soon enough ;)

Also, I'm posting a sort of abandoned plotline in a separate story, check it out if you're interested :)


	26. Chapter 26 - TGG - The clean-up

Thank you for the follows and review! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

 **# #**

It was a miracle that no one had been seriously hurt in the explosion. The damaged building was not inhabited, and there was no one on the sidewalk at the moment of the incident. Joan quickly triaged the dazed teenagers that had been inside Speedy's, made a tour of the closest neighbors to check on them (Mrs Turner immediately tried to set up a dinner date with her son Henry. Again.) and briefed the harassed constables that arrived on the scene. Sherlock also emerged from his lair and was poking around the debris with faint interest.

After making absolutely sure that her help wasn't needed (the recently arrived paramedics looked at her a little funnily for insisting), Joan headed back to the flat, exhausted. Seeing the state of their living room made her sigh in defeat. The broom was conveniently left at the entrance, and the doctor tiredly started to sweep. A chorus of steps on the staircase made her pause. Four men in black suits appeared on the landing, looking deadly serious. "Sherlock's not here" she informed them, propping her chin on the broom's handle.

"We know, Dr Watson. We are here for the clean-up" informed the biggest one of the crew. A fifth man appeared behind them, carrying professional looking cleaning equipment.

Joan blinked at them. Twice. _Ah, yes, Mycroft._ _It_ _certainly takes time to get used to the big brother and his special brand of caring._ "Suit yourself" she gestured at the surrounding chaos, pushed the old broom into a corner and retreated to the kitchen. She was soon joined by Sherlock who proceeded to silently glare at the people mulling around their flat from his high chair, sipping the tea she pressed into his hands.

"Dr Watson, Mister Holmes" the same man came forward after an hour or so. "We are finished. Have a nice evening."

"Thanks…" Joan called weakly after their retreating backs, while Sherlock swept into the living room to assess the presumed damage to his kingdom. _Have to admit, they did a good job_ , the doctor thought, eyeing skeptically the make-shift planks that now covered their windows.

Feeling the toll of the unexpectedly bad day, Joan dragged herself to the sofa and with a mumbled "Just a minute" fell into a deep slumber.

 **# #**

Sherlock watched his flatmate fall asleep on the couch, noting the signs of physical and emotional fatigue in the deep frown and the clenched fist. There was a small pang of guilt, easily dismissed, when he admitted that he had been partially responsible for it. _Most of the blame is on the explosion, anyway._ He settled into Joan's chair, reviewing and cataloguing the events of what had started as a very dull day. There had been some specific highlights he wanted to analyze in detail.

 _Fact A : __John reacted badly at the gunshots._

 _Assumption A.1 :_ _triggered flashback._ _Rebuttal evidence : __John is not afraid of gunfire and had fired the gun herself before (see Jefferson Hope file)._

 _Assumption A.2 :_ _something earlier in the day made John liable to a flashback._ _Extracting visual archives :_ _Shoes (mud, walked home, distance assessed at 1.4 km, starting point in Mayfair judging by the colors); Smell (antiseptic, had been to a morning shift at the clinic, spice, had been to a lunch in an Italian restaurant, not Angelo's judging by the location, perfume, expensive, not hers but had been rubbed on her wrist, like a tester maybe, by a female); Collar (rumpled, someone had given her a big hug); Face (tension lines, lips bitten (_ _note:_ _nervous tick confirmed), the conversation had not been all pleasant)._ _Conclusion:_ _John had been hugged by a woman with whom she went out for lunch. John does not usually allow physical contact, so it must have been a close relationship (family), who tends to put John on edge. Harry Watson._

Sherlock huffed in irritation. Older siblings. Ugh.

 _Fact B :_ _The explosion._

 _Fact B.1 :_ _No casualties._ _Fact B.2 :_ _The building exploded just in front of his windows._

 _Assumption B.2.1 :_ _The explosion intended to kill / wound / scare him specifically._ _Evidence:_ _The 218 building was not inhabited for two months – the owners had trouble selling the place. No alarm system in place. Anyone who wanted to get in, could have done so._

 _Compiling list of potential perpetrators._ _Filtering on individuals out of jail. Filtering on individuals confirmed in the country. Filtering on individuals with knowledge of exploding devices._

 _No matches._

 _Assumption dismissed._

 _Conclusion:_ _Accidental explosion, due to neglected maintenance of gas pipes._

"Dull" he sighed, running a hand through his hair. However, it left him with nothing else to do and no gun to shoot. With a grimace of resigned distaste, he started to mentally compile the volumes of gas needed to result in such a blast and the time it needed to accumulate, trying to use unnecessarily complex formulas to pass time.

The calculations were interrupted by an increasingly labored breathing on the sofa, that transformed into a pained moan. Joan was having a nightmare. Which was to be expected after the almost flashback and the explosion. Rather unsure of how to proceed, Sherlock settled on observing, presuming it could just pass.

It had happened before, of course. There were nights where he would hear her cry out, then pace her room before going back to bed (probably without sleeping, though). There were nights where she would shuffle down the stairs, pale and wordless like a ghost, and just sit in the kitchen sipping tepid tea. Once, he found her curled in her chair, hugging a cushion and staring out of the window. Sometimes, Joan would insist on staying awake in the living room, even when her jaw was about to get dislocated from yawning. It had been the nights where he felt like playing the violin. Always eager to find unexpected correlations, Sherlock started to play more often at ungodly hours. The occurrences of nightmares decreased, even though it might have been linked to the dozen times he started just screeching his moods on the poor instrument and the ex-soldier came barreling down the stairs with murder in her eyes.

Regardless of the previous experience, it was the first time Sherlock had the opportunity to observe the bad dream 'in action'. It was an unsettling sight, even for him. Joan was tense like a coiled spring, nails scratching at the lining of their couch. She was breathing harshly, muffled pleas of "no, don't, not them, no, please" escaping her lips now and then. The vulnerable expression on her face was painful to watch.

It didn't look like the dream was going to pass.

Telling himself that his actions had nothing to do with Joan's state and were just a result of his own selfish impulses, Sherlock got up with the intention to fetch his violin from its case near the window. Suddenly, Joan turned on her back and let out a heart-wrenching cry, back arched and the right arm reaching out in a futile attempt to grasp something or someone.

He was not sure how that happened ( _and isn't it food for thought later on, being unsure so often in one evening_ ), but a second later he was standing by the sofa and holding Joan's outstretched hand. The moment their hands touched though, blue eyes flew open, still unseeing. The wild look of desperation and anger cut through Sherlock like an electric shock, and then Joan jerked away. Like snow in boiling water, the dream faded and the recognition settled in.

"Oh Christ…" she breathed out and let herself fall back on cushion, hiding her upper face in her elbow. "Sorry 'bout that."

"No trouble" he answered, trying to sound as bored as possible. _What is John seeing in those dreams? Who is she failing to help? Why am I interested?_ "Who are they?" he heard himself asking and winced. They had discussed personal space a couple of days prior, and it seemed like he just barged into it again.

Perhaps Joan had been too tired to scold him, because she answered: "They?... I talked, didn't I." He waited. "Not sure. I don't remember these things clearly, you know." Slowly, her breathing was getting back to normal. "So it could have been any group of people – my squad, my family, some random kids." Joan pushed herself up. Her gaze went everywhere but near Sherlock, who continued towering over her. "Well… yeah. I'll just go do something."

"Was it because of what Harry said?"

The sharp glare was more surprised than outraged. "If I knew what triggers this staff, I wouldn't need a therapist, would I?"

"You **don't** need a therapist."

"The limp wasn't the full extent of my problems, Sherlock" she smiled uncomfortably. _But you still don't go to your appointments_ he wanted to protest. "But it's alright. I manage." Sighing heavily, Joan got up. "Dibs on the shower today." With that final piece of wisdom, she disappeared in the bathroom, latching the door. Sherlock pouted at the rapid dismissal ( _dammit, John, I have questions_ ), but remembered his previous idea of playing music. Soon the flat was filled with soulful notes of a waltz.

 **# #**

Joan spent the rest of the night upstairs, reading a random fantasy novel she discovered in her duffel bag. She vaguely remembered starting it back in Afghanistan, and some kind soul (likely Bill Murray) must have packed it up when they shipped her out. Sherlock kept on playing until three in the morning, soothing her frazzled nerves. There were light steps on the landing around five o'clock, coming up, then going away some seconds later. He must have seen the light under the door.

The fatigue got the better of her determination though, and she dozed off half-an-hour before her alarm went off. Cranky as hell, Joan changed into clean clothes and stumbled towards the promise of coffee. She was greeted by the sight of two grown men sitting across each other in mismatched chairs and engaged in what looked a lot like a staring contest. _I'm not dealing with it without caffeine_. Almost certain her presence had been noticed, she greeted the pair: "Morning."

"Good morning, Dr Watson" Mycroft drawled without breaking eye contact with his brother.

"Coffee anyone?" The Holmeses didn't react. "Or tea?" Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. _Tea for His Highness, then._ Giving the back of Mycroft's head an assessing look, she decided to prepare some for him too. Being civil never hurt.

While she was preparing the three mugs, her flatmate started plucking the strings of his instrument. Neither brother made any other noise. A little uncomfortable now Joan managed to get the tea to the two men, before coming back with her coffee and sitting at the table in silence.

"I can't" Sherlock finally said with finality.

"Can't?"

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time." Joan almost choked on her coffee. _You were literally shooting the wall yesterday, mate. Who are you trying to fool?_

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

The look of utter contempt of the younger man's face was a piece of art. "How's the diet?"

" **Fine**." Mycroft finally deigned to look at the ex-soldier. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

She tried to express a polite surprise. "About what?"

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent." _That's not an answer._

Sherlock seemed to take offense in Mycroft trying indirect means of pressure. "If you're so keen, why don't **you** investigate it?"

"No, no, no, no…" the older man tutted. He continued on, distracted by the examination of his tea mug. "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time – not with the Korean elections so ..." There was an intrigued silence, Sherlock for once looking interested in what his brother was saying. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" _Here goes my spying career_ , Joan thought humorlessly. "Besides, a case like this – it requires ... legwork."

"How horrible" Joan quipped dryly, exchanging a dark look with her friend.

"Did you finish that novel?" Sherlock asked all of a sudden, seemingly concentrated on his violin.

She threw him a questioning look, but before she could open her mouth to reply, Mycroft butted in again. "Clearly, she didn't, Sherlock."

"Do you have cameras in my room or something?" She was met with two different looks that stated the same sentiment of _You are an idiot_. "Never mind."

"What's he like to live with?" Mycroft asked her directly, making eye contact. "Hellish, I imagine." The glance at the yellow smiley on the wall was very telling.

The doctor settled for a neutral "I'm never bored."

"Good." There went the fake smile. "That's good, isn't it?" _Must still be bitter about me refusing his money. How am I the bad guy in this situation?_

The rest of the conversation took a turn into explaining Mycroft's problem, punctuated by irritated huffs and snorts from Sherlock. Leafing through the file ( _when did they compile all this since_ _ **this**_ _morning?_ ), Joan looked up at the government official. "Don't you have special teams for this kind of emergencies?"

"The less people know about the plans, the better I sleep." There was a loud mumbling from the chair along the lines of "You never sleep" that they both ignored.

"And why are you taking it to a civilian, then?" Taken aback, Mycroft remained silent a second too long.

"Because he likes to meddle" Sherlock replied in his place. Joan repressed a laugh.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"We can't take the risk of the memory stick falling into wrong hands" Mycroft tried to get back on track. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you." Sherlock appeared even more irritated than before.

"I'd like to see you try" he said with a look that promised endless vengeance in case his brother tried to act upon his threat.

"He's not on your payroll, is he?" Joan calmly asked at the same time. It was unsettling to be on the receiving end of twin Holmes stares that **demanded** to elaborate, but it took more than that to intimidate an experienced medical officer. "That's not how you ask for a favor" she smiled sweetly at Mycroft in lieu of an explanation.

He rolled his eyes at them, and dropped the file on the table. "Think it over." The statement was met with Sherlock starting to play an annoying tune, accompanied by a heated glare. Joan winced. Without further comments, the older Holmes left the flat. They could tell he was rolling his eyes again.

Hearing the front door close, Sherlock finally stopped abusing the violin, and glared at the door as if it had personally offended him.

"Why did you lie?" Joan asked, taking another sip of her cooling coffee.

"Hmm?" came the non-committal reply.

"You don't have a case right now. Why did you turn him down?"

Sherlock finally stopped burning holes in the door with his eyes, and turned his glare at her, albeit with less intensity. "Mycroft is more than able to deal with it himself. He just wants to keep me busy."

"I don't know whether it's thoughtful or overbearing" she offered with a small smile.

"Annoying. It is annoying." His eyes were narrowed, and he breathed loudly through the nose. Joan's mind supplied an image of a very hissy cat, ears pressed against its head, slapping away all attempts at contact. She tried to superimpose it with her flatmate, and almost choked on the last gulp of her coffee. _Alright, never imagine Sherlock with whiskers and cat ears again. Ever._

"What are you doing?" inquired the said flatmate, eyebrow cocked in an elegant expression of _You are still an idiot_ , apparently having already deduced the gist of her thoughts _._

The doctor waved him off. "Daydreaming. Don't mind me." The look on Sherlock's face said that he minded very much that she was mentally comparing him to a domesticated animal, but would not admit it, and therefore would sulk to the end of days.

Before he could come up with an appropriate insult, his phone started to ring. Giving Joan a last scathing look, he fished the device out of his jacket pocket. "Sherlock Holmes." Chuckling to herself, Joan gathered the empty mugs and brought them to the sink. "Of course. How could I refuse?" Sherlock disconnected the call, and marched into the kitchen. "Lestrade. I've been summoned." _How pompous_ , Joan thought half-focused on the shelves, trying to decide on which jam to eat with a toast. "Coming?"

Slightly surprised, she turned to the detective, who watched her expectantly. "If you want me to."

"Of course," he smirked, disappearing towards the stairs. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

 **# #**

 _Maybe I should have taken the jam with me_ , the doctor thought forlornly while following Sherlock and Lestrade through NSY corridors. They had walked by an open space, where several officers, including Sally Donovan, scowled darkly at her flatmate. _Yes, a toast with jam would be very nice right now_ , she decided. Lost in her breakfast musings, she almost missed a part of the conversation, but the word 'explosion' caught her attention alright. "What?"

"It was made look like one" the DI explained. "Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box – a **very** strong box – and inside it was this." Eyeing the envelope, Joan tried to process the new information. _That's an extremely melodramatic way to get someone's attention._

Sherlock was already circling his prey. "You haven't opened it?"

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade huffed.

After having rumbled a series of deductions under his breath ( _obviously, of course_ ), Sherlock carefully opened the envelope, and with a mildly surprised expression on his face pulled out a pink phone. Joan's brain went on temporary leave. "Wait, that's… the phone, the pink lady's phone?"

Lestrade joined in the general astonishment. "What, from the study in pink?"

"Not the same one, obviously," Sherlock huffed impatiently, "but it's supposed to… The study in pink?!" He swirled to glare at Lestrade, who was now backed by Donovan. "You read her blog?"

"Course I read her blog! We **all** do." Joan startled. _That's why the hit counter was unusually high this week._ "D'you really not know that the Earth goes 'round the Sun?" The question made the doctor cringe internally, and glare covertly at the snickering Donovan. _I should have thought it through before posting. But bloody Scotland Yard wasn't supposed to read it. Wait… they read the first posts too, didn't they? Oh hell…_ The carefully constructed blank expression on Sherlock's face didn't help the matters. At least, Sally took the cue to leave, having no reason to stay around.

"It isn't the same phone" he stated coldly. "This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership." Joan repressed the urge to rub her neck in embarrassment at the accusatory glare sent her way.

The moment was cut short by a voice alert – "You have one new message" – followed by five pips.

"Is that it?" she asked incredulously. _Someone blew up a building for… this?_

"No, that's **not** it" Sherlock snapped back, showing the picture of an empty room to her and Lestrade. It was as bland and impossible to identify as you can get.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!" It appeared the DI shared her bemusement at the whole situation.

Not Sherlock, though. "It's a warning" he stated almost dreamily. _Here he goes…_

"A warning" she sighed, mentally readying herself for a long and not-boring investigation.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again." He gave the picture another passing glance, before taking off. "And I've seen this place before."

Joan trailed after him. "Wait a… what's going to happen again?"

The man twirled around, not even stopping walking, raising his hands in an universal sign for explosion: " **Boom!** " _Well, that's reassuring. It's not like I had my fill in bombs in the army._ Joan's internal voice continued to grumble in her head during the whole trip back to Baker Street, while Lestrade tried to coax Sherlock into giving more information, without much success.


	27. Chapter 27 - TGG - The game

Thank you for the reviews and follows! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

 **# #**

One trip to the basement flat and a surreal phone call later, Lestrade dropped them at Bart's, rushing back to the NSY to get some guys from the tech unit and to alert bomb disposal. Sherlock occupied an empty lab like it had his name on it, almost dancing between tables with droppers and petri dishes in hands for a while. Joan stayed to the side, ready to help if needed. Finally, the detective ceased his manic activity, and sat behind a microscope, completely engrossed in the analysis of a shoe lace. Feeling the nervous energy pent up, she started pacing around the lab to avoid blowing up at an innocent bystander. _I hate waiting. Waiting for the disaster to happen and do nothing. That's exactly why I went to front lines instead of sitting around in the camp hospital, tearing my hair off._ She remembered the sobbing voice on the phone. _Poor woman._ Sherlock didn't seem to care either way about the hostage, but she couldn't help to imagine how wrong it would feel to be in her place. Not even allowed to speak up your own words. Depending entirely on someone else to save you. _God, no_ , she cringed and glanced at her companion. "Is someone looking for her, at least?" she finally asked, coming to a stop in front of the man. A phone chimed somewhere in the room.

"Hmm?"

"The woman on the phone. Does **anyone** try to find her?"

"Oh, she doesn't matter, just a hostage" Sherlock mumbled absently. "No lead there."

"That's not my question!"

The outburst earned her a sharp disapproving glance. "You're not going to be much use to her."

"I'd like to know that people are looking for me, if I were in her shoes" Joan stated through her teeth.

"Well, solving the puzzle is the fastest way to find her" the detective snapped back, eyes glued to the microscope again. "Pass me my phone."

Raising an eyebrow at the evident dismissal of her concerns, Joan grudgingly looked around for the device. "Where is it?"

"Jacket." Her thought process screeched to a halt, before starting off in the direction of impending volcanic eruption. _Jacket, huh._ Narrowing her eyes, she marched to stand just behind Sherlock, who remained oblivious to the distinct possibility of being strangled to death by an irate war veteran. Joan eyed the man's back, pondering what would be an appropriate revenge. _No violence, Watson, you're a civilized human being, remember..._

On a split-second decision, she plastered herself against Sherlock's back, snaking one arm around his waist, the other going for the inside pocket of the jacket. The man jerked slightly and tensed, not expecting the full body contact. He kept his eyes trained on the microscope, but the stare became a little glazed. Smirking, Joan took her time to pull the phone out and didn't step back before whispering right into his ear: "Here it is."

The detective gave her a cold glare that screamed _You are evil and you will pay for that_. She responded with a barely concealed grin and a shrug. "A text from your brother" she informed him after several seconds of a staring match.

"Delete it" Holmes the younger huffed, turning back to his samples.

"Delete it?"

"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it."

"Hmm." She took a look at the text. "Mycroft isn't convinced. He texted you eight times. Seems urgent."

She got another glare for her troubles. "Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

"His **what**?"

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk" came the logical explanation. "Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?" Joan stared at the back of the curly mop of hair in disbelief. _Delightful?! Bombings are delightful?!_ Fearing that she would smack her friend if the conversation continued, she gritted her teeth and resumed the silent pacing, throwing disapproving glances at the detective from time to time.

After a couple of minutes that appeared eternal to the doctor, a computer beeped with a match and as if by magic, Molly Hooper popped into the lab. "Any luck?"

For once, Sherlock appeared enthusiastic at her appearance, but it may have been the successful analysis. "Oh yes!" _And here goes another episode of Sherlock being an oblivious git_ , Joan thought from her corner of the room.

But then a change to the usual program appeared, a thin man in a white t-shirt. "Oh sorry, I didn't…"

Molly looked unexpectedly excited at the interruption, and Joan frowned slightly. "Jim! Hi!" The tone of her voice made the situation rather clear. _Oh dear. She didn't._ "Come in, come in!" _This is so awkward…_ With the biggest smile Joan had ever seen on her, Molly announced: "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." _Girl, why are you introducing your date to your crash? Why, just why…?_

This was when Watson realized that both Molly and Jim were looking expectantly at her, the woman starting to blush in embarrassment. Sighing, she saved the poor girl: "John Watson. Hi."

"Hi." Jim's greeting was rather absent-minded, and he quickly turned back to Sherlock. Who spared him only a fleeting glance. "So, **you're** Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" The question was ignored.

Starting to fidget, Dr Hooper quipped: "Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." _Yeah, that was rather obvious_.

Sherlock clearly didn't seem to partake in the romantic vibe, as he immediately dropped a bomb – "Gay" – and didn't even look slightly apologetic about it.

Molly's face fell. "Sorry, what?" Joan sighed internally. _You introduced him to Sherlock Holmes, what the hell did you expect?_

"Nothing." _Not convincing anyone here._ "Um, hey."

"Hey" Jim said, not trying to deny anything. He was too busy smiling giddily at Sherlock to pay attention to his surroundings, and managed to knock a metallic dish off the table. _This is so, so awkward…_ "Sorry, sorry!" They all stared at him with various degrees of disbelief. Finally sensing the tension, Jim shuffled back towards Molly. "Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at The Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

Molly eyed him warily. "Yeah!"

"Bye."

"Bye."

"It was nice meeting you." Sherlock thoroughly ignored him again.

Seeing as Molly was about to explode, Joan sighed again. "You too."

Once the door was closed, Dr Hooper demanded an explanation ( _of course_ ), and Sherlock delivered it without a care in the world ( _obviously…_ ). Joan tried to intervene, but the train wreck was well underway and there wasn't much she could do at that point. A little surprised that Holmes didn't get slapped for his troubles, Joan stared at the door that slammed behind the upset pathologist. "That was… not good" she stated thoughtfully.

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?" And the man looked genuinely baffled at Molly's reaction.

"Yeah… no. **That** wasn't kind."

Sherlock huffed and mumbled something along the lines of " _sentiment_ ". Then he smirked and pushed one of the trainers towards her. "Go on, then."

"What?"

"You know what I do. Off you go." Joan eyed him suspiciously. _That's my payback for earlier, innit._

"No."

"Go on" the git insisted.

"I'm not making a fool out of myself…"

"A second opinion is very useful to me. Truly." _This is soooo my payback._

Sighing in defeat, she reached for the shoe. "Fine. You asked for it." Sherlock smiled that fake smile of his in return. Wincing at the sight, Joan reported her attention to the item in her hands. The white piece of fabric and plastic stared back at her. _Damn you, Holmes._ "It's… a pair of trainers. Rather well maintained, the owner took care of them. The sole is well-worn, but the outside could pass as new." Sherlock hummed in vague approval. "The size is rather big, probably a man." She looked inside. "There is a wiped trace of a name, not a very adult thing to do. So, a teen, a boy." Glancing at her tormentor, Joan was irked to see him searching something on his phone. "The design is very retro." No reaction. "Um…"

"Anything else?"

"Nope. That's it." She pushed the shoe back to Sherlock. "Now go on, tell me what I missed."

"Almost everything of importance, really" he stated calmly. "But you're still above the level of an average Yarder."

"Oh, I'm flattered" Joan deadpanned. Smirking in triumph, Holmes proceeded to show off. _He is so impressive, I almost forget how callous he could be._ The deductions rained until something dawned in that brilliant brain of his, and he froze, staring in to the distance.

"Carl Powers."

 **# #**

Several nerve-wracking hours later, Joan somehow found herself in Mycroft's office, pretending to collect information on a case that didn't interest Sherlock in the slightest. She was also pretty sure Mycroft already figured out the solution, but couldn't be bothered to do the dreaded legwork. It was the main reason she didn't feel very sympathetic to his pained winces ( _so it really was a dental appointment after all_ ).

"How can I help you, John?" Mycroft cringed at her.

Looking up from her chair, Joan decided to cut to the chase. "I am Sherlock's subcontractor for the case." Mycroft snorted in derision, immediately regretting the gesture. Joan smiled unapologetically. "What can you tell me about the dead man?"

The older Holmes appeared to consider her for a couple of seconds, before delivering the information: "Twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Program in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies ..." He rubbed a hand against his cheek. "Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening."

Checking the couple's address, Joan frowned in thought. "He was found at Battersea. Did he take the train?"

"No."

"No?"

"He had an Oyster card, but it hadn't been used. No ticket on the body."

"Then how…"

"That's what I'd like to know."

Joan gave him an exasperated look. "You already have an idea, don't you."

Attempting a half-smile, Mycroft finally went to sit at his desk. "Assumptions need to be supported by evidence, John. That's where my brother comes in."

"What a team you two make" she chuckled, getting up. "I'll keep you informed on this."

"Thank you." There was clear dismissal in his tone, which ticked her off.

"Take a pain killer, Mycroft. Evening." She left the office with the very satisfying image of Mycroft Holmes owlishly blinking at her.

 **# #**

This feeling of accomplishment was one of the few positive things to keep her going for the following thirty and something hours, between hostages clad in Semtex and puzzles almost perfectly customized to Sherlock's desires. There was this unsettling feeling in the back of her head that something was very, very wrong (other than the obvious bomber playing games with them). Despite her friend's enthusiasm, she was on edge, almost snapping at Donovan at some point. Even the rush of seeing the case solved didn't alleviate the nagging worry.

Sherlock remained happily oblivious to the world outside his case, but Lestrade noticed her simmering unease while they were marching to the morgue to look at Connie Prince's body. "You alright, John?" he asked quietly while Sherlock tried to score points with Molly after the recent disaster. They could have just shown a warrant, but this was more entertaining.

She shrugged. "Yeah, just… I don't like this."

"Me neither" the DI sighed wearily. "It is beyond my competence, clearly."

"It is tailored for Sherlock" she sighed, sharing her biggest fear. "It looks so much like a trap designed just for him, and I can do nothing but watch him rush into it." Greg stared at her, speechless. Apparently, he didn't think about it in this perspective.

Suddenly, Sherlock popped back at their side. "Are you coming or what?!" Rolling their eyes, they followed the overexcited man-child.

The dead body was just that, dead. Joan examined the wound that supposedly caused the aforementioned state. _This woman did no gardening_ , she noticed. _Doesn't mean it couldn't have been a nail, though…_ "Do you know when she cut her hand?" she wondered out loud, expecting Greg to look it up in the report.

"Two to three days" Sherlock deadpanned almost immediately, not even looking away from his examination of the victim's forehead.

Not doubting his conclusion in the slightest, Joan straightened up. "That can't be right."

"Why not?" Lestrade chimed in.

"Tetanus takes eight to ten days to incubate. This wound can't have caused her death."

Sherlock had finished with his own ministrations and grinned proudly at her. "Good, John."

"I went to medical school, remember" she smiled back.

"So how did she die?" Lestrade intervened, mildly exasperated by the byplay.

"Symptoms are identical to tetanus…" Joan started, but was interrupted by her companion ( _as usual_ ).

"The bacteria was introduced into her system by **someone** else. I need to confirm something." And off he went, leaving them dazed in his wake.

"Well, that was enlightening" Greg sighed again. "I better get back to the station. Let me know if anything turns up, John."

"Sure!" she called after him. _I need coffee… Lots of coffee._ She glanced at Connie's body. "You don't have these problems anymore, don't you?" she said humorlessly.

"I don't believe she does" said a soft voice behind her, making her almost jump out of her skin.

Instinctively, Joan went into a combat stance, before realizing who was talking. "Jesus, Molly! The morgue isn't the best place to scare people like that."

"Sorry" Dr Hooper smiled in apology. "I thought everyone left, and was surprised to see you talking to a corpse." _If you put it like that…_

"Yeah…" The blogger rubbed the back of her neck. "It's been a hectic couple of days." They stared at each other in awkward silence. "So… how are you?"

"Good. Fine, considering…" the mousy pathologist trailed off, frowning and blushing at the same time. She passed by Joan and started to close the bag over Prince's body, clearly to occupy herself.

"Sorry 'bout the other day" Joan blurted out suddenly. "He can be wrong sometimes, you know." To her horror, Molly's shoulders started to tremble and she sniffed. Loudly. "Oh. I'm… I'm such an idiot, I'm sorry."

"No, no…" Molly hiccupped. "Jim didn't contact me after, so… I suppose Sherlock was right." She turned to face Joan, wiping the tears. "Should be used to it."

 _That's a dim perspective on life._ "It was his way of being helpful, I think… But you should just smack him over the head next time. He will get the point if enough people tell him."

Dr Hooper giggled through a last sniffle. "Thank you, John."

"Anytime."

 **# #**

When she got back to Baker Street, Lestrade was there, trailing after Sherlock around the living room and pleading for leads. The detective was covertly enjoying it, and let nothing transpire. They spent several hours bugging him, but he kept on mumbling about connections and occasionally shutting off inside his head. Joan took this time to browse Andrew West's social media. There was nothing of importance to the case, though she spent a little too much time on the couple's photos. They looked happy together.

The ongoing puzzle came to a close seven hours later, after Sherlock rushed out to the Yard to get a copy of the new autopsy report. He was giddy with his success, which didn't improve Joan's mood. _He's too caught up into this._ _It is brilliant and all, but he is getting sucked in. I don't like it, not all…_

And then something went wrong.

The hostage was killed, along with a dozen of her neighbors. It made her sick even thinking about it. Lives, innocent lives lost just like that, for a game two men played. She hated games. _This isn't right._ She didn't sleep that night, painfully aware of nightmares that creeped up from the recesses of her mind. It was no wonder she was cranky the next morning, especially after seeing the actual damage done by the explosion on the news.

Sherlock didn't look particularly happy either. "Well, obviously I lost that round, although technically I did solve the case" he drawled, muting the TV. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him." His features sharpened while he talked, and for a second he made her think of a majestic bird of prey. "Just once, he put himself in the firing line."

"What do you mean?"

The predatory expression was gone as soon as it came. "Well, usually, he must stay above it all. He organizes these things but no-one ever has direct contact."

 _Consultant,_ her brain supplied. "What, like an agency for customized crime?"

Sherlock propped his chin on the tips of his fingers, face alit with admiration. "Novel." Joan stared at him in growing disbelief. _Geniuses. They appreciate the process, the intellectual intricacies of things. Of course, he is fascinated by this guy._ She looked away, if only to stop picturing what two minds like Sherlock's could do if put together. _They could create a new universe. They could utterly destroy the world._ "Taking his time this time" the genius in question grumbled, checking the pink phone. _He wants it. He doesn't care about the world beyond his own win or loss. A mirror. He is drawn to a mirror image of himself…_ She repressed a shudder, disguising it as a shrug.

"Anything on Carl Powers' old classmates?"

"Nothing, they're all clean. No connection."

"Maybe…"

"Probably not." This time, she openly glared at the interruption. _You're scaring me, Sherlock. Is this puzzle really worth it?_

"So, why is he doing this? Why is he playing this game with **you**?"

There was a smile, an actual wistful smile on his lips. "I think he wants to be distracted."

 _No. No, you are not the same!_ She wanted to yell, remembering the holes in the wall and vigourously denying any parallels with explosions, but swallowed back her comments. Without a sound, she pushed herself up and stomped towards the kitchen. The pent-up anger couldn't escape Sherlock's notice this time. " **What**?" he inquired, unhappy to be pulled from his musings about the delightful unidentified mass murderer.

Trying very hard not to throw anything at him, Joan turned back, jaw clenched. "There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives. And right now, you don't seem to care at all."

He sniffed with disdain. "Will caring about them help save them?"

She knew exactly where this was going. "Nope."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." _Liar. You are a liar, Sherlock Holmes. You wouldn't be solving crimes for a living if you never cared. You wouldn't be_ _ **saving**_ _these lives._

Her brain-to-mouth filter decided to take a momentary leave at that point. "And you find that easy, do you?" She instantly regretted saying this, but it was too late to back down.

Sherlock's silver eyes narrowed in irritation. "Yes, very. Is that news to you?" _Yes._

"No." They looked each other dead in the eyes for the longest moment.

"I've disappointed you" Sherlock finally stated, looking rather disappointed himself.

 _There is a line in the sand between professional detachment and heartlessness. I've never seen you cross it before, and I want you back._ How hard is it to say? _Too hard…_ "Good deduction" Joan gritted through her teeth.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." _Wrong. You are a hero to so many around you. Don't you see? Don't you see anything behind this callous armor of yours?!_ She was screaming in her head, but getting emotional would have only aggravated Sherlock. Joan was at a loss of what to do and about ready to call in Mycroft.

The decision was taken away from her by a text alert. Sherlock's attention switched immediately. "Excellent!" There was a new message, a new puzzle. A new life on the line for two men to play with. Joan closed her eyes briefly to try find her bearings again. "View of the Thames. South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. You check the papers; I'll look online ..." He trailed off, catching sight of her leaning forward with hands braced on the back of her chair. "Oh. You're angry with me, so you won't help. Not much cop, this caring lark."

Her head snapped up, and for a second she felt ready to hurt him, because this contemptuous voice cut into her so harshly. Stashing the burn of his words far away to cry over later, Joan sneered half-heartedly and went to the couch, pulling closer the various papers strewn on the coffee table. Sherlock's piercing gaze followed her there in silence, before focusing back on his new puzzle.


	28. Chapter 28 - TGG - Of guns & phonecalls

Thank you for your reviews, follows and favs! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

 **# #**

They had acted normal from then on, even if the silence in the cab to the river bank was very strained. Lestrade gave her a quizzical look when they arrived, but Joan just shrugged it off. _Maybe I'm worrying too much. It had been a rough week._ She stopped the usual argument about seeing and observing from breaking out, and extended the metaphorical olive branch: "Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?" Encouraged, the man unfolded his reasoning, and the ex-soldier couldn't help but grin. _No matter what, he is brilliant._ "Fantastic."

Apparently, Sherlock took their earlier clash hard enough to dismiss the compliment with a cranky "Meretricious."

Joan was already wincing internally when Greg chimed in: "And a Happy New Year!" _Wha…_ They stared at him, bemused. The DI didn't look repentant at all. "I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character" he carried on, back on track. _Golem, Dzundza…_ Joan frowned. _Sounds vaguely familiar._

"Pointless" Sherlock deadpanned. "You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?"

"Me" grinned the maniac, and walked away with flourish.

"Hey, wait!" Joan took off after him, nodding briefly to Lestrade. Once in the cab, while Sherlock was grumbling (again) about his new playmate not calling, she tried to remember where she had heard about Golem before. _Central Europe, I've never dealt with them, so someone must have mentioned the guy… Assassin. Strangulation… Sev got almost strangled a couple of years ago in Slovakia. I remember the bruises._

Sherlock was writing something in a notebook, so she took out her phone and shot a text to an unidentified number a few select people knew by heart. " **Golem in London. Any info?** " Meanwhile, they arrived under the Waterloo bridge, and her friend stopped the cab. Almost on autopilot, Joan followed and watched him talk with a homeless girl. "What are you doing?"

"Investing" was the only answer provided. _Sure. Fine. Whatever, Mr Mysterious._ "Now we go to the gallery." Her phone beeped. "Have you got any cash?" _Seriously?_ She nodded absently, checking the new text.

" **Are you sure?** "

She immediately typed the reply. " **Certain.** "

After a minute, spent in silence, with Sherlock thankfully too busy plotting (probably something ridiculously smart) to notice something as mundane as texting, she got a " **Out of town. Transferred tip to Liam. A team will collect him when located.** "

 _I was under impression the guy is good at hiding._ " **Will let you know if we find him first.** " _It is a distinct possibility, after all._

The new text even beeped more urgently than the last ones. " **Do not get involved.** " Another followed seconds later: " **Seriously, Watson, stay away from that guy.** "

At that point, they had arrived at the Gallery, and she simply sent " **Will try** " before tucking the phone back into a pocket. However, her exit was stopped by an imperious hand: "No, I need you to find out more about Woodbridge. Lestrade will give you an address." And with that final command, the man disappeared around the corner. _Couldn't you have said so before?!_

"So, where to now, Miss?" the cabbie turned towards her.

She sighed heavily. "Can you park over there, please? I need to get the address."

 **# #**

The visit to Alex Woodbridge's apartment was a quiet and rapid thing, so she got out in barely fifteen minutes, trying to google-search Professor Cairns on her phone while walking. It was interrupted by a call from a hidden number. Sighing, Joan picked it up: "Watson."

"Sev is freaking out, you know" said a bored familiar voice over the line.

"He's freaking out about everything those days. Got anything for me, Liam?"

"Not yet. I put an assault squad on high alert. You sure it's alright?" Behind the perpetually bored veneer, her old friend sounded worried.

"I'm fine."

"You said that last time." 'Last time' was a visit in physical rehab when she couldn't walk straight or hold a pen.

"Well, I'm really fine now. Listen, can you check a Professor Cairns in London for me? Female."

A couple of minutes later, they had identified Patricia Cairns, a specialist in super-nova formations, working at the planetarium. "Why are you looking for her anyway?" Liam asked after the clatter of his keyboard stopped.

Giving a passing thought to the 'classified information' label, Joan answered honestly: "She was in touch with Golem's latest victim. You should keep an eye on her too, just in case."

The snapping of computer keys started again. "On it. Keep me posted, Watson."

"Will do, Hendricks."

She didn't have time to put away her phone after the call ended when Mycroft started texting her about the missile plans. Sighing in defeat, she headed towards the Tube.

 **# #**

Talking with Lucy had been heart-breaking. Joan felt bad for bringing the plans into the conversation while the girl was mourning her fiancé's death. She had half-a-mind to go yell at Mycroft for putting them all in this situation, just because he couldn't get up his arse and confirm his damn theories himself. Her daily manhandling by Holmes brothers didn't stop there, though, as Sherlock put her back into a cab as soon as she got home to go to a god-forsaken place. He didn't even let her whine "But I'm hungry...", starting to spit out random information about searching techniques during the ride.

When they started to navigate among the homeless crowd settling for the night, she ended up asking: "What are we doing in this nice part of town?"

Sherlock glanced at her over his flashlight: "Homeless network – really is indispensable."

 _At least, he is amenable to explanations now._ "Homeless network?"

"My eyes and ears all over the city."

"Oh." _Oh_. "That's clever. So, you scratch their backs and…"

"Yes, then I disinfect myself." Joan suppressed a chuckle at this one.

No one was bothering them so far, but locals didn't appear very happy at their lights either. Some two hundred meters away, a large shadow of a man started to grow. Joan's vision narrowed at it immediately. _He heard us. He's going to run._ She took off without a warning, hand reaching behind the back to pluck out the gun.

 **# #**

Sherlock did **not** expect this outcome for the evening. It was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission, maybe a good chase. _You don't catch international assassins every day, after all._ He didn't expect Joan to rush into Golem's path, gun in hand, as soon as she spotted his shadow. It was probably the best course of action, since the man's ( _extremely_ ) long legs would have taken him out of their range in five seconds sharp. The suspicious car taking off in the distance confirmed that they would have lost the target if Joan hadn't acted as quickly as she did.

Nevertheless, it was fairly impressive to see the petite soldier skid to a halt, mere centimeters in front of the giant killer who came to an abrupt stop at the feeling of a cold muzzle pressing under his chin. The whole action took barely thirty seconds. Dzundza was towering over Joan, enormous hands unfurling and clenching uselessly at his sides. In response to the murderous rage in his eyes, the doctor clicked off the safety with deliberate slowness. It made the loudest noise in the sudden silence that surrounded the scene. Joan was standing firmly on her feet, looking sternly top-down at Golem, steady hands raised over her head to keep aim.

"Down" she growled after ten seconds of the stand-off. The assassin seemed to deliberate, but there was something steely in the tilt of Watson's head, an ice-cold sharpness in her eyes that Sherlock didn't notice before. "Now" the very dangerous woman intoned, and surprisingly Golem obeyed. _She will shoot and won't miss_ , supplied Sherlock's mind, _and he knows it. He has better chances trying to escape custody later on._

The man got on his knees, glaring daggers at Joan, whose gun followed his descent to rest against his forehead. The ex-soldier took three steps back, clearly getting out of range of sudden grab, and glanced briefly at the stunned detective, who had cautiously approached them from the shadows. "Sherlock, do you mind cuffing him?" she said in her normal voice. "Wrists **and** ankles would be better."

She stood immobile, weapon aimed at the assassin's head, until Sherlock had finished slapping cuffs on Dzundza. He had to tinker with them a little, to adjust the size. The man was glowering at them both in silence, but the dull glint of the gun seemed to dissuade him from acting out. Once his limbs were secured, Sherlock unwillingly glanced at Joan for further instructions. Her eyes didn't leave Golem for a second. "Lay down" came the command, and after a long moment, the assassin complied. The cold promise of death on Watson's face didn't bode well for anyone disobeying her orders.

The gun lowered, and Joan's posture relaxed slightly. "Well, that went well" she said, finally looking at Sherlock with a sheepish smile, only a shadow of danger remaining in her laugh lines.

 **# #**

The police arrived after all local inhabitants had enough time to scramble away from the trouble. She stood guard unwaveringly, eyes straying every so often back to the large man hissing threats on the ground. Sherlock was circling their prey, thankfully not getting too close, but clearly itching to go through the pockets. Joan rolled her shoulders with a wince. Her left arm was **not** supposed to go up at this angle, and a dull throb settled in. She had not done any serious damage to it (yet), but it shifted the scarred muscles and metal pins in a very uncomfortable way. _My physician is going to kill me. Harry is going to kill me. I think Jen would join in too. Sev and Liam are going to obliterate me._ Joan looked back at the captured assassin and grinned. _Best night ever._

When the reinforcements finally arrived, she allowed herself to relax and step back. Lestrade, looking drained and slightly murderous, started scolding an unrepentant Sherlock about "keeping me informed, dammit!" _At least, he's not coming after me… yet._

During that time, Sally was busy yelling at two confused constables who tried to hiss the assassin upright and get him into a car. Considering the man's height, it was not an easy task, and he really wasn't eager to comply. They tried to remove the cuffs on his ankles, but luckily Donovan got there first to prevent the disaster. The sergeant had some common sense when it didn't concern Sherlock Holmes.

While they were dragging the Golem towards patrol cars, he sent Joan one last glare that promised life-long revenge. The doctor shrugged it off, completely unfazed. Scarier people had glared at her.

She was about ready to call it a night, but Sherlock dragged both Lestrade and her to the Hickman's Gallery, somehow managing to bring in the manager too with a couple of texts. Ensued the most nerve-wrecking experience of the week so far (these moments just kept escalating), with a kid counting down to the explosion on the phone and Sherlock enjoying himself way too much given the situation. Joan thought her legs would give out when the young voice said "Ten…" How Sherlock managed to keep his thought process going after barely a half-a-second of shock was a mystery to her, and she was infinitely grateful for it, despite the constant irritation ( _fear_ ) that settled in days ago.

In the end, the answer was staring them right in the face all along ("The Van Buren Supernova!"). _Woodbridge has seen it_ , she recalled belatedly, while dragging her feet behind Sherlock (who was barely hiding his smug smile) and Mrs Wenceslas (who stopped being outraged and started looking scared). Lestrade had rushed ahead to call the bomb disposal squad and organize the rescue, but he slowed down at the NSY entrance, even more harassed than before.

They were headed towards a meeting room (not a stern interrogation one, for some reason), when Joan grabbed Sherlock by the elbow. "Do you need me in there?"

He gave her an assessing look and seemed to come to a logical conclusion. "We'll manage. Go get some sleep."

That was exactly what she needed to hear. Nodding in thanks, the ex-soldier walked slowly towards the staff room and its couches. However, she did not intend to sleep immediately. After checking for potential eavesdroppers, Joan took out her phone.

"Hendricks" answered Liam after three rings.

"Golem is in Scotland Yard's custody. Thought you'd like to know" Joan said quietly.

There was a stunned silence, then… "You bloody didn't. John, honestly…!"

She cringed at the accusation. "Relax, I'm fine. Not even a scratch."

"You're informing Sev all by yourself. I'm not paid enough for this."

"On it then. Meet you up for a pint sometime?"

Liam sighed tiredly, as always when dealing with her. "Sure. I'll ring you when I'm available."

Without further ado, he disconnected the call. _Well, that went better than expected._ Liam had helped her out big time four years prior, and she had returned the favor several times already. Somewhere along the line their relationship switched from cordial professionalism to friendship without anyone noticing. Since he was always stuck as support, the man worried too much for his own good and tended to sulk for months once the danger passed, but everyone was used to it and paid his dark moods no mind. Stretching out on the couch in the empty staff room, Joan glanced longingly at the coffee machine. _Nah, let's get_ _ **this**_ _over with first._ With a heavy sigh, she dialed the number.

"Yes."

"Don't freak out" she shot immediately.

There was a couple of seconds of silence. "I'm going to kill you, Watson." His voice expressed an interesting range of emotions, going from absolute weariness to helpless anger.

"It was easier than expected, you know" she tried to placate him.

"You took on an international hitman! Alone!" _Not exactly…_ "I almost got done in by him in Slovakia! How am I supposed to not freak out?!" Sev was not quite shouting, but she could hear him pacing around and kicking various furniture.

"You should bring a bloody gun to work sometimes, it worked well enough for me!" she grumbled, irked by his reaction. "Or stop flirting around. Maybe then you'd notice a giant bald assassin stalking you."

"I'm not…" he started but cut himself to take several deep breaths. "That was dangerous."

"Yep" Joan chirped gleefully.

"You're going to be the death of me."

"You sounded just like my sis, right now."

Sev snorted indignantly. He had the misfortune of meeting Harry once, and never quite recovered after that. "Certainly not!"

Joan smiled at the ceiling. "Feeling better now?"

"…yes. Thanks." He sighed in apparent defeat. "And John? Good job." He disconnected quickly after the last statement. Joan smirked and closed her eyes, phone still in hand. _My back-ups are informed. The bad guy got caught. Time for a nap._

 **# #**

The nap-time was cut short by an irate text from Mycroft. " **My patience is wearing thin. MH** " Joan frowned thoughtfully and ran through several options of scathing replies. She ended up picking a simple " **Noted. JW** " that was sure to irritate the hell out of the older Holmes. Finally looking around the staff room, she was rather surprised to find Sherlock, in full thinking mode, snuggled on the other couch. _He… waited for me. This is surprisingly thoughtful._ A glance to the wall clock indicated that it was barely six o'clock in the morning. _I need a shower before starting the day._

"Sherlock?" The man didn't even twitch in response. "Let's get back home, shall we?" No reaction. _Well, I'm not waiting for him to re-emerge._ Joan stood up, stretching and wincing at the creaks her bones made. There was a notepad abandoned on the worn dining table. She tore a page from it and scrawled " **Let me know when you get back. John** ", then carefully placed it on his knees so he wouldn't miss the note when waking up. Sherlock remained unresponsive throughout it all. _That's some concentration alright…_ Joan sighed internally while navigating through silent corridors.

 **# #**

She managed to get to Battersea just as the guard shifts changed, and catch the man who found Andrew West's body on the tracks. Grumbling, since he was about to head home, the guy threw a fluorescent jacket at her and gestured to follow.

"You gonna be long?" he asked when they were finally at the place.

"Might be" Joan shrugged noncommittedly.

After some small talk and an interesting insight on suicides, Joan pulled out on her phone a photo of the scene from the morning West was discovered. "Did it rain that night? That would have cleaned off the blood."

"Nah, not a drop. There wasn't that much blood either."

 _That can't be right._ The doctor glanced suspiciously at the guard. "His head was smashed in."

"Sure, but there wasn't much blood." Joan hummed in thought, attention back on the lines. _Head injury **that** severe would bleed abundantly._ "Well, I'll leave you to it then." The man looked impatient. _His shift had ended twenty minutes ago, of course he's impatient, John._ "Just give us a shout when you're off."

"Right, thanks."

She stood at the intersection, frowning at the lines stretching before her. _The cause of death was definitely the head injury. It **must** have bled a lot. Enough to pool around the body. But there was no blood __**here.**_ _Then… then how did his dead bloodless body get here?_ There was a loud clang at her right where the points changed for the incoming engine.

"Points" said a baritone behind her.

It was extremely lucky that she recognized it before her fight reflex kicked in. Instead of punching the grinning menace, she just whirled around with an involuntary exclamation: "Yes!"

"Knew you'd get there eventually" Sherlock offered smugly in guise of explanation.

Joan tried to quirk an eyebrow at him. "Thought you weren't interested. How long have you been following me?"

The detective smirked. "Since the start. And I wouldn't give up such a case just to spite my brother, you know." Joan was quite sure her face expressed clearly the _Oh, really now, you wouldn't?_ but Sherlock ignored it completely. "Took you long enough. Let's go!"

Wondering how this had become her life, the doctor trailed behind him without protest. They rode the cab in silence for mere ten minutes before arriving in a quiet neighborhood. Sherlock led the way through the streets while explaining: "The missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service."

"Yeah, I know" Joan confirmed absent-mindedly. "I've met them." She almost bit her tongue – _how am I supposed to explain now_ – but thankfully Sherlock assumed she was talking about Mycroft and his minions and just continued.

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter. We're here."

"Where?" she asked in confusion.

Their destination ended up being a small flat on the first floor, belonging to Joe Harrison. _The future brother-in-law. Oh god, poor Lucy…_ After a token protest, Joan was quick to disregard the break-in. She was angry. Really angry. When the guy showed up, she didn't feel bad at all for intimidating him into spilling the beans. _A greedy idiot. He ruined his sister's happiness, and had the gall to show his face to her._ When Joe finished his story, Joan glared at him from above. "You are going to talk to your sister before getting arrested. She deserves to know." The man shrank on the sofa, looking miserable as hell. "Don't you agree?" she drawled with a coldness usually reserved for war criminals. The wannabe spy nodded reluctantly. "Do you still have it, the memory stick?" He nodded again, eyes glued to the ground in shame.

"Fetch it for me, if you wouldn't mind" Sherlock intervened, sounding bored as hell... again.

 **# #**

 **A/N:** Behold the BAMF! :)

Sev and Liam are original characters that will reappear at some point. And no, Sev is not Severus Snape. Sorry.

I was always perplexed by how John didn't have his gun on the case in the series (you know, Sherlock gives it to him at Vauxhall Arches). So I took the liberty to correct this oversight :p


	29. Chapter 29 - TGG - Before midnight

Thank you for the reviews, follows and favs! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

 **Warning:** Torture (nothing too graphic, mind you...); Language.

 **# #**

"Distraction's over, the game continues."

"Well, maybe _that's_ over too. We've heard nothing from the bomber."

"Five pips, remember, John? It's a countdown. We've only had four."

As ominous as Sherlock's prediction sounded, it didn't seem that probable now that they were seated in their flat, trying to gather some warmth despite having gaping holes instead of windows in April in London. The consulting detective was huddled in a chair, shouting at a TV show, of all things. Joan was trying to type a semblance of a blog entry while stifling laughs at the most interesting comments from her flatmate. When the topic of jeans being a sure indicator of paternity came up, she couldn't hold back: "Knew it was dangerous"

Sherlock gave back a distracted, vaguely inquisitive hum.

"Getting you into crap telly."

"Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince."

Not distracted by the not-so-subtle change of subject, Joan made her own leap in the conversation: "Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?"

"Yep." Sherlock popped the 'p' with scorn. "He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood – again."

Unsure if she should feel affronted about the evident disregard to the honor of knighthood, Joan decided to stay on less controversial subjects: "You know, I'm still waiting." Acknowledging the confused look she was getting, she elaborated: "For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"Didn't do **you** any good, did it?" came the expected pout.

"Nooo, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

"True." _Good, he smiles at last._ Sherlock had been in a deep sulk since that morning, and getting him to actually talk and react agreeably was reassuring. And made her feel less guilty about going out. _Change of scenery and all that... to stop overthiking the whole case._

"I won't be in for tea" she said, closing the laptop and standing up. "I'm meeting Sarah and Karen at the bar. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge." Sherlock's response couldn't be classified as intelligible, but he seemed to get the memo. "Uh, milk, we need milk" Joan added as an after-thought, already at the door.

"I'll get some."

 _Wait, what?_ Almost certain that she had heard it wrong, Joan turned back slowly. "Really?!"

"Really" the detective retorted with a hint of annoyance.

 _Miracles happen. Let's test it._ "And some beans, then?"

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the telly, which should have been suspicious in itself, but the affirmative hum made alarm bells go mad in her head. Maybe she'd cut it short at the bar. This guy was clearly plotting something. Having no evidence of any mischief in the making, Joan left without further probing, feeling slightly uneasy about leaving the over-grown child alone. _He's a big boy, he can handle himself for a couple of hours._

 **# #**

In retrospective, she shouldn't have left the flat at all.

She had been walking for less than five minutes when a grey van screeched to a halt beside her, and two muscle-heads tried to get her in, coming from an adjacent alley. Acting on reflex, she managed to break the nose of the first and the wrist of the second assailant, but when she was finishing them off, someone grabbed her from behind and stuffed a chloroform imbued cloth in her face.

The world tilted sideways and went black.

 **# #**

Joan came to her senses progressively. First, she smelled an overwhelming whiff of chlorine, which triggered a splitting headache she hadn't noticed initially. Then, her stiff back let her know that it was probably time to move from the uncomfortable position, but her brain finally caught up and signaled that there was no recollection of getting in this position, _and isn't it a warning sign?_

"She's awake" said a gruff voice at her right. One she didn't recognize.

"Delightful" drawled a more strident voice. Before she could react, someone yanked on her hair, to lift her head up. Her left shoulder protested violently, and she let escape a pained gasp. "Well, hello there, Miss Watson."

Joan squinted at the sight before her, trying to glean the most information from her surroundings. She was clearly bound to a very uncomfortable chair, hands in the back, with zip-ties according to the sharp pressure on her wrists. The room they were in was oppressively silent, aside from the muffled breathing of her captors _(how many, can't_ _focus_ ) and the distant dripping sounds. _Water. Chlorine. Damn, my head hurts, there must be a clue here..._ The light was too bright, but the visual input was necessary right now. A lean man in an expensive-looking suit was staring at her from two meters away, hands in the pockets, looking bored and politely curious for the world. His face rang a bell.

"Jim?" she squeaked. Her throat was as dry as the Afghani desert.

A pleased smile appeared on the otherwise blank face. "Oh, got it right in one. Congratulations." _Shit. Hiding in plain sight indeed._

Apparently, he sensed her uprising panic as he leaned forward. "You are quicker than I thought, Johnny. Do you understand what is going on?" His eyes were black holes.

 _Let's keep it peaceful. Don't make him angry._ "I'm the fifth pip" she croaked. Passing out from chloroform did no good for the body's hydration, and having her head forcedly tilted up didn't help either.

"Gooood" Jim smiled, showing way too many teeth. "Good pet. Sherlock trained you well." If it was intended to make her angry, it failed miserably. Joan just quirked an eyebrow, trying to communicate as much indifference as possible about her current situation. "Playing tough, are we?"

Jim nodded at the goon who was still holding her hair, and the pressure disappeared. Her head lolled a little to the side, but she kept her chin up. There was no way she was getting her guard down right now. Meanwhile, Jim produced a small bottle of water from somewhere. He unscrewed the top, making sure she saw his every movement and took a gulp. Then he walked to her chair, standing close enough to sit on her lap if he wanted, and held the bottle to her lips. "We need you in good shape for the show. Drink." His voice promised dire retribution if she decided to rebel. Luckily, it was not her intention. She drank greedily, trying not to waste a drop. A small trail of water ran down her chin. When the bottle had been emptied, Jim roughly pulled it away, but didn't move himself.

He was examining her. It made her shiver.

"We still have time before my date with dear Sherlock." _Date?!_ "I want to know why he keeps you around."

Not thinking it through, she blurted: "I wonder why too." Jim threw his head back and laughed.

"I like my pets obedient, but I can see the appeal of a feisty one" he finally drawled in that mocking voice of his. "I have heard so much about you, Johnny-girl. I just needed to see it for myself. Don't disappoint me."

 _What?_ "What are you talking about?" she glared at him. She was being held in an unknown place, confused and bound, so be it. But she wasn't to be intimidated by a mad bomber.

Jim finally moved away from her, talking to the room at large. "You see, Johnny, it is thanks to you that I obtained one of my best snipers." He turned his icy gaze at her, then at someone behind her. "Sebby, darling, show yourself."

A tall man in combat gear walked into her field of vision. His weathered features and sun-bleached hair were enough for her to recognize him. Something cold twisted in her belly. "Moran."

"Watson" the man nodded, his eyes hungry and murderous.

 **# #**

Lieutenant Joan Watson had been into her second tour in Afghanistan for three weeks. She was getting along quite well with the personnel at the base. But since the new Colonel had been assigned to the outpost, she had an influx of young privates, mostly women, at the infirmary. Sometimes with black eyes. Sometimes with bruises on their arms, legs, necks. They refused to talk, or even meet her eyes. They took aspirins, bandages, and practically ran to their tents.

But Joan was a good doctor. She cared. She was appreciated and respected. One of the privates, Elise, explained to her what was happening after some gentle coaxing.

Colonel Sebastian Moran, one of these men who got their rank mostly based on their lineage than their merit, had a close-minded opinion about women or cultural minorities in the army. And he endeavored to pass his point across to them, usually by calling them to his tent after shifts and explaining his perspective with some physical arguments. Despite being an utter bastard, he was quite skilled in hand-to-hand combat, and none of his victims had a chance of overpowering him.

Needless to say, Joan was furious. After discreetly talking to some of her other patients, she reported the man. It was a huge scandal, but Watson stood her ground, and more people came forward with accusations. Moran had been dishonorably discharged a month later. Not even his family could cover this up.

 **# #**

If anyone had a grudge against her, it would be Sebastian Moran. Joan almost physically felt her chances of survival dwindle.

Jim, in the other hand, looked like he was having tremendous fun. "You don't find such ruthless and angry fighters every day." She had to silently agree with this statement. "Sebby, as promised, leave no marks." _Shit. Shit. Shiiiit._ The murderous look in 'Sebby''s eyes flared to an inferno as he advanced. Jim leaned back against the tiled wall, arms crossed on his chest, ready to enjoy the show.

Joan struggled to get free, almost tipping the chair off, but Moran had been faster. He grabbed her neck, and squeezed with force. His hands were huge. _Dammit!_ While feeling her lungs strain from the lack of oxygen, she desperately tried to break her hands free by lifting arms as high as possible and slamming it back down. _Come on._ Her reconstructed shoulder screamed with white-hot pain. _Come on!_ Black spots in her vision. _Break, DAMMIT!_

Zip ties snapped as Jim started tut-tutting something along the lines of "We need her alive". Moran had been distracted by his boss's comment and loosened his grip. With a wordless snarl that was just a little choked, Watson hurtled herself forward, hitting him in the solar plexus with her head, successfully cutting his breath.

They fell in a heap of limbs. Ignoring her body screaming in pain ( _shoulder, lungs, throat, head_ ), Joan rolled off the man and immediately followed her movement with a heavy punch, then another, leaving him no room to react. She was about to land a third punch when the metallic click of a gun being cocked made her freeze.

She looked up at Jim, who nonchalantly aimed a semi-automatic at her head. There was no chance to hide from it. "Very impressive, Johnny. So, you're not just a docile pet, you're a combat dog." He smiled. It was terrifying. "Move it, girl." She slowly squatted away from the groaning Moran.

Jim continued to hold her at gunpoint until his goon came back to his senses. Joan just kept to her kneeling position on the floor, breathing heavily. Sebastian's rage didn't make itself wait. A powerful blow to the head threw her on the floor, seeing dark spots again. Soon, a foot hit her unprotected stomach, and she curled up on herself, instinctively bringing the hands to protect her middle.

"Sebby, I said no marks" echoed an empty voice over her head. No blows followed, so she seized the opportunity to take shaky breaths. Everything hurt. _Sherlock. He can't be allowed to meet with these psychos. Don't come, Sherlock…_

Suddenly, a hand much smaller than Moran's grabbed her much abused left shoulder in a death grip and forced her to turn. She was laying down on her back now, unforgiving LED lights making her tear up. Jim's face loomed over her, close, too close.

He ran a creepily gentle hand on her cheek. "We'll have to hide this. I need you to be a perfect gift for my date. But you also need to cooperate, Johnny-girl. Will you cooperate?" he almost sang. Weary, but feeling bravely stupid ( _Mycroft was right after all, damn him too_ ) _,_ Joan shook her head weakly. Jim frowned in a mock-pout. "Too bad."

With an unsuspected force, he yanked her left arm up, over her head. Muscles, metal and bones contorted and twisted, and she couldn't help but cry out. Tears jerked from her eyes, running unbidden through her hair and to the cold floor. When the agonizing pain subdued a little, she was greeted with a grinning face of Jim Moriarty. "You don't have a choice, Watson" he informed her gleefully, grabbing her other wrist and holding both her arms up, pinning her to the floor.

 _Dammit._

"Sebby." She weakly tried to free her hands at this, but only managed to get pointy nails dug deeper into her skin. "You **must** show me why they kicked you out." _Dammit._ She was in no shape to attempt an escape.

 **# #**

There was something Joan Watson learned at a very early age, while fighting off bullies and pulling her sister out of trouble. If you don't resist, the aggressor is more likely to lose interest and stop. If you don't speak up, you don't get yelled at as much. It didn't mean she applied this lesson to her daily life, but she knew how to spoil the violence when there were no other option left.

She just locked herself away and waited for an end.

Joan wasn't sure how long it lasted. She came back to the sight of Moran smugly smirking down at her, and Moriarty staring intensely at her face. "Did we break you already?" Her whole body throbbed in dull pain. _That will bruise_ , she noted absently.

She didn't move, didn't talk, but something in her eyes must have shown the tightly controlled fury, since Jim tilted his head in delight. "I can see why he keeps you around now."

He stood up, dusting off his trousers, and snapped his fingers. Hesitant footsteps announced the arrival of another goon, less confident and surely less important than Sebastian. "Get her ready. I want everything to be _**perfect**_."

They roughly brought her back to the chair, and a sweating thin man with small beady eyes applied some make-up on her blossoming bruises. Aware of Sebastian watching her like a hawk, she didn't even flinch when the goon righted her clothes and started combing her hair ( _why bother, it is too short_ ). Everything hurt, a dull continuous aching that was slowly gnawning at her self-control. _I need a hot bath_ stated a small giggly voice in her head, the one that appeared at the worst times.

After long minutes, or maybe hours, she wasn't certain, Moriarty reappeared, followed by another man who carried a heavy parka and _an effing shitload of_ explosives. _Kill them, rip them, make them cry_ chanted the anger, but Joan stilled herself to appear broken and harmless. She was outnumbered, outgunned, and she was **not** a fool. Unless death was imminent, she would not act recklessly, as much as she wanted to tear her captors to shreds.

Apparently, all of them knew their responsibilities in this little show, as the make-up artist (as she called the beady-eyed man now) hoisted her on her feet, to allow Sebastian drape her in the explosive vest, then in the parka. Moran took his sweet time, tightening belts more than necessary and blowing his hot breath in her face intentionally.

When he was finally adjusting the jacket, she allowed herself to show her cards for a second. Her body tensed imperceptibly, features hardened, killing intent apparent in the suddenly steely blue eyes. Surprised, Moran looked up, ready to fight. Joan had always been proud to say that her anger could shut up the most stuck-up opponents. It looked like it applied to dishonorable ex-Colonels with anger-management issues as well.

"Hey Sebby" she whispered evenly, her undertone promising hell. "I will cut you up."

Before he came up with a retort or a threat, she closed off again, forcing her body to relax, appearing a meek marionette with cut strings. Jim had been too engrossed in his phone to notice the brief interaction, and Moran was left to wonder if he had just had a hallucination.

They stuffed her in a changing cubicle, with Moriarty mocking voice coming through a headset. "You know the gig, Johnny. Repeat what I say or they will be picking you up with a spoon for a week." She didn't need to respond, really. She could hear other voices on the line, Moran setting up his snipers, getting in place. _Sherlock wouldn't just walk in there, would he?_

"And the star is here!" chirped Jim. "In position. Johnny-girl, keep it smooth and you may even walk out alive." She didn't believe him for a second.

 **# #**

 **A/N:** Well, that escalated quickly...

In case it wasn't obvious, I expected much more of Moran in the show. The super badass colonel with a super advanced rifle, I wanted to see **that** , not a sneaky terrorist :( So Lord Moran now has a younger brother, Sebastian, that you all just met. Sebby isn't a nice guy, just like his bro. Sebby is an angry and violent guy. Let's hate Sebby together, while he's here. Rant over!


	30. Chapter 30 - TGG - The Pool

Thank you for the follows, favs and review! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

 **# #**

Through a haze of pain, panic, anger and possibly a concussion, Joan heard a door creak and swing outside her cubicle. Idle steps echoed in the building ( _the pool_ ), and a rich baritone finally spoke out: "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance – all to distract me from this." _This bloody idiot!_

"Up you get, Johhny. This is your grand entrance." The evil smile was palpable on the line. "Keep your poker face. Hands in your pockets. Keep him hanging. Go."

Feeling desperately helpless, Joan pushed the door and slowly walked out. Sherlock had been facing the other way, showing off something in his hand to an invisible audience ( _Is that the memory stick?! That lying git!_ ), he was staring at her in shock over his shoulder. "Greet him, girl. Say 'Evening'."

"Evening" she intoned stoically. The range of emotions that played on Sherlock's face was heart-breaking. Confusion, shock, hurt, betrayal. _Oh Sherlock, don't, please don't do that_ , _get away, please._

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" whispered the devil in her ear.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" she repeated, uncertain how she was able to keep a semblance of calm for so long.

Sherlock lowered his arm, facing her in shock. "John… What the hell…?"

"Bet you never saw this coming" giggled Moriarty.

"Bet you never saw this coming" she almost choked on these words. _You're a dead man walking, Jim._ Sherlock started to walk towards her, looking so lost and confused, and hurt, she couldn't hold her 'poker face' anymore.

And Jim knew it, of course. "Show him, Johnny. Show him now." Eyes glued to Sherlock's face, trying to intimate him an order to run, she pulled open the jacket, revealing enough Semtex to level the building and feeling sniper's sights zero on her chest.

Jim's voice was bubbling with mirth, while she repeated evenly his words: "What… would you like me… to make her say… next?"

Sherlock missed a step, eyes widening in realization, shock and betrayal replaced with worry and anger. His eyes left her face, where they were trying to find a hint of explanation, and roamed the room, in search of the real enemy.

"Gottle o' geer ... gottle o' geer ... gottle o' geer…" Her throat was dry again. Her bones, her nerves screamed at her to collapse, _don't move, don't strain, rest._ But she stood unflinchingly through sheer willpower.

"Stop it" Sherlock exclaimed loudly, perhaps with more force than strictly necessary.

Jim hummed in her ear. "Repeat **exactly** what I say, Johnny. Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." She cringed at the follow-up, making a point not to look at the red dot dancing on her chest. "I can stop Joan Watson too. Stop her heart."

Panic flashed on Sherlock's face as he turned on the spot. "Who **are** you?"

In the distance, a door opened, and Jim spoke out. "I gave you my number." It was surely a cue for her to stop acting as a mouthpiece. "I thought you might call." _Is he ...? Nah, couldn't be._

Unable to move, Joan listened to sluggish steps circle the pool, coming closer. Phantom feeling of nails on her wrists made her shiver slightly. It went unnoticed by Sherlock, but she heard Moran huff gleefully on the line. Meanwhile, the surreal encounter continued.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket ..." _What?!_ "... or are you just pleased to see me?" Sherlock drew her _ **own bloody**_ gun from his pocket, aiming at Moriarty.

"Both." She could guess the amusement of the madman standing somewhere behind her.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" he sing-sang. Sherlock looked utterly unimpressed, which prompted an explanation rant. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" His steps grew closer. "Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that **was** rather the point." Sherlock glanced briefly at Joan, clearly considering the merits of shooting the suit-clad man. "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." Jim's voice was mild but threatening. Sherlock's hands didn't tremble despite his lack of habit with the weapon. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see ..." If he had been an actor, his voice would have been a great asset, it was so pliant and could reproduce so much emotions. But in the end, there was nothing underneath, just darkness. "… like you!"

Joan gritted her teeth. _Don't compare yourself to Sherlock, you little shit!_

Sherlock seemed to come to a certain epiphany, as he started spouting TV quotes: "Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so." He sounded pleased.

"Consulting criminal." _Criminal is quite enough of a description, actually_. "Brilliant." Sherlock's whisper cut into her daze like a white-hot knife. _He had been fascinated with his puzzles, alright, but now is he getting drawn to his methods? Sherlock…_ Deep-down, she knew that her friend wouldn't go that way, but her very recent face-to-face with Moriarty and his crew left her on the edge of hysteria and well into the territory of paranoia.

"Isn't it? No-one ever gets to me – and no-one ever will." _Don't be so sure, you bastard._

"I did" Sherlock stated, cocking the gun.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did." _Good grace, what's wrong with these men?_ "But the flirting's over, Sherlock ..." _Oh, so it really was flirting. What the actual hell_ _._ "Daddy's had enough now!" The high-pitched tone made Joan wince. Steps came closer again. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

He was just behind. Her shoulder hurt like hell. Trying to stem the pain, she closed her eyes for three seconds. Her vision dimmed a little when she opened them again.

"So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." It was all she could do not to shake from mental and physical strain. She could see Sherlock's worried gaze flicker to her from the corner of her eyes.

"Although I have **loved** this – this little game of ours." His accents changed in a split second. In another setting, it would have been impressive. "Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

Apparently, enough was enough for the consulting detective. "People have died."

Wrong thing to say. "That's what **people DO!** " Madness washed over them, and she even heard a sharp intake of breath somewhere in the earpiece.

Visibly shaken, but holding his ground Sherlock replied softly: "I **will** stop you."

"No, you won't." _We will,_ she swore silently.

"You all right?" Sherlock's voice had been softer, gentler, and the soldier realized he was talking to her. She took too much time to react, to even look at her friend, and Jim was already at her side, breathing down her neck.

"You can talk, Johnny-girl. Go ahead." _Oh, you think you can make me dance too?_ Some part of her acknowledged her behavior as unnecessarily stubborn, but it wasn't in charge for a few hours now. She briefly met Sherlock's eyes and nodded. It didn't seem to calm him though, as worry flared more intensely in those silver eyes.

Abandoning a stable stance for a shot, the detective reached into his pocket and fished out the memory stick he had been showing off earlier. _Almost forgot about it._ "Take it."

Moriarty expressed limited interest, too busy lurking at John's side. "Huh? Oh, that!" He strolled past her, brushing his shoulder against hers, sending ice-cold goosebumps running down her spine. Snatching the stick from Sherlock's hand, his voice even sounded like a Cheshire grin. "The missile plans!" A crazy scheme started to form in her head. Not something she would ever consider in other circumstances, due to high chances of failure, but there were several factors that played in her favour: all Moriarty's men were loyal to him and listened to his orders to the letter, and they didn't expect her to react in any way at all. Joan's mind was whirling with panic, anger and the need to do _something, anything, get him out._

"Boooooring!" Jim chanted, staring hard at Sherlock with a mischievous grin. "I could have gotten them anywhere." The stick made a small splash landing in the water and prompted the soldier into action.

Launching herself at the man with more force than she thought possible at the moment, she clutched Jim tightly against her, surprising both Sherlock and surrounding snipers in the process, judging by unsettled mutters in her headset.

"Sherlock, run! Get away!" she practically growled. The gun wavered a little. Jim laughed in delight.

"Good! **Very** good." _Why doesn't he run? Dammit, dammit, no!_ Sherlock kept aiming at Moriarty's head, not moving an inch from his position. _No, no, no._

"Why don't we go up together, Jim?" she snarled in his ear, hoping foolishly to make him feel uncomfortable at the very least. It didn't seem to work.

"Isn't it sweet?" the devil addressed Sherlock. "I might take a liking in your guard dog too." The implication made her tighten her grip, pulling Jim closer to the bomb. It made him scowl mockingly. Sherlock just looked sickened. "But **oops**!" That grin didn't bode well. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

In the earpiece, she heard Moran respond to an unheard order "With pleasure" ( _there was a code word somewhere, must have been, damn_ ), and a red dot appeared on Sherlock's forehead. The freezing dread seized her guts, making her vision tunnel on the little laser point that could become a gaping hole in her friend's head in a matter of seconds. _No, no, no, no…_ Nothing but a litany of denial ran through her mind. Almost on auto-pilot, she released Moriarty, who looked none the worse for wear.

He chuckled lightly, as she stepped back, hands up and powerless, and righted his suit. "Westwood" he informed Sherlock with a knowing glance, unperturbed by the gun still pointed at him. Getting no response, he unexpectedly turned to Joan, who was starting to shake slightly. He ran a deceptively gentle hand on her cheek: "You will learn, right?" The touch made her wince inwardly, gritting her teeth not to show the mortifying disgust she felt at the contact.

Still looking at Joan, he addressed Sherlock over his shoulder: "D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to **you**?"

Showing off his own actor talents, the consulting detective sounded bored out of his mind: "Oh, let me guess: I get killed."

The idea seemed to bother Jim, as he moved to fully face Sherlock. " **Kill** you? N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway someday. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll **burn** you." There was the madness again. "I'll burn the **heart** out of you." She didn't see his face, but she felt the brunt of the vicious snarl like a stab in her gut.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one" came Holmes's soft answer.

"But we both know that's not quite true" and Joan had never felt so wrong in agreeing with someone.

 **# #**

The mute scene stretched for seconds, but they seemed much longer to him. He had felt elation at finally meeting the man who provided such interesting puzzles. In the back of his mind, he had known that they were dealing with a dangerous criminal, but these twists, _so delightful._ He had **needed** to meet him in person, everything else was put on the back-burner.

And then Joan had walked out, clad in explosives, sickly pale and stiff, and it wasn't fun anymore. It was real and close to home. Sherlock had forced himself to focus on Moriarty, on finding a way to get both his friend and himself out of there, but he couldn't stop noticing how spent Joan looked, in striking contrast with her deadly efficiency during Golem's arrest the previous night. How poorly she repressed the unbidden shivers while Moriarty came closer. How worrying ( _terrifying_ ) was the cruel interest in black eyes when they were directed at his blogger. _How he wanted to break the hand that dared to touch his John._

Partly because of this continuous flow of emotional feedback in a corner of his consciousness, he couldn't help but blink in surprise when his nemesis declared with utmost confidence that he, a self-proclaimed sociopath, had a heart. And with all the smarts at his disposal, Sherlock Holmes didn't know how to react.

"Well, I'd better be off" the smaller man finally said lightly.

Still calculating possibilities, but perhaps more in tune with his anger, Sherlock raised the gun higher. "What if I was to shoot you now – right now?"

Unfortunately, the man in front of him was in absolute control of the situation. "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." Confident enough to mock him openly with grimaces and grins. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock; really I would." _How come he knows so much about me? About us?_ Jim was right, Sherlock was not able to shoot with intention to kill. Not even in this life-and-death situation. "And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."

It settled the suspicion that snipers had orders to shoot in case of their boss's untimely demise. A glance at Joan's unnaturally still form refrained him from any reckless decisions.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." With this final salute, full of badly disguised contempt, his newly found nemesis strolled out of the pool.

Following the movement until losing the sight of him, the detective delivered a promise of his own: "Catch… you… later."

The high-pitched sing-song voice echoed shrilly in the chlorine-permeated space: "No, you won't!" It must have been a cue to snipers, as red dots blinked out of existence.

Waiting a few seconds to make sure they weren't about to blow up anymore, he dropped the gun and slid to Joan's side, hands going directly to unfasten the explosive vest. "Alright?" he asked frantically, trembling slightly while almost ripping off a belt. Joan was awfully still, tense, breathing heavily. "Are you alright?!" _They had her for six hours, forty-two minutes at the lowest estimation._

"Yeah, yeah… I'm fine" came the unconvincing reply, but it was better than the silence. He sprang up, going to pull off the jacket. His mind unwillingly catalogued all signs of the ordeal his flatmate had been through.

 _i) Bruise on left cheek, badly concealed with make-up. The foundation's hue doesn't match John's skin color. Had been applied by a man, inexperienced in such endeavors._

 _ii) Large handprints on the neck, also concealed with the same foundation. Attempted strangulation._

 _iii) Red-trimmed eyes. Tears. Taking in consideration John's character, only strong stimuli could elicit this kind of response._

 _iv) Sweaty eyebrow._

 _v) Paleness._

 _vi) Tremors._

 _Conclusion:_ _Residual pain from physical torture._

He hid the horror at this deduction by rounding his friend, and pulling violently the jacket off her.

"I'm fine" she repeated weakly. "Sherlock."

Hyperventilating, he managed to roughly strip the offending article of clothing together with the lethal amount of explosives. The motion jerked Joan's arms back, which must have upset her injured shoulder. "Sh- **Sherlock**!" Ignoring her protests, _ignoring the red haze of delayed panic that clouded most of perceptions,_ he pushed both items as far away as possible. Eliminating the most direct threat, his next brightest idea was to verify the absence of the second danger on the list – Moriarty himself.

"Oh Christ" he heard behind his back, and a muffled trump indicated that Joan slid to the floor in an undignified heap. The sight made his adrenaline skyrocket again, _or is it anger_ , _is it guilt_ , and to take the edge off, he started pacing, trying to gather his thoughts. "Are **you** okay?" He couldn't remember anyone else worrying about someone else's well-being after a near-death experience.

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine." Of course, he started blabbering while his main focus was on coming to terms with what just happened. _Why is it so difficult to breathe?_ Deciding to temporarily put aside the topic of his friend getting tortured for hours by a psychopath _(_ something in his mind palace started screaming at the thought), he leapt to another unsettling fact. Joan had tried to save him by sacrificing herself. _Am I supposed to say something? What do I say? What_ _ **can**_ _I say?_ "That, er ... thing that you, er, that you did – that, um ... you offered to do. That was, um ... good."

That was the less eloquent thing he had said since he was a toddler.

"I'm glad no-one saw that" came Joan's matter-of-fact answer. _Huh?_ He felt his hand tremble against his thigh. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk." _Is she making a joke?_ He felt some of the tension drain away.

"People do little else" he offered. A small smile blossomed on Joan's weary face, and Sherlock allowed himself to smile in return. They pulled through this mess.

Joan pushed herself off the wall in a brave attempt to get up, but she had barely had the time to skid to a half-crouch when a laser point came dancing over her chest. They both froze in silent horror.

A door opened loudly on the other end of the pool, and the gleeful voice of Jim Moriarty greeted them again. "Sorry, pals! I'm soooooo changeable!" He wasn't facing Jim, and he didn't want to move, not yet, he had to assess the threat, potential escape routes, _how many snipers are there anyway?!_ "It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my **only** weakness." _This man has to be put down._

He glanced down at Joan, dreading and hoping for her to understand. Unwavering blue eyes locked with his, making him stagger from the trust he unconditionally received. The madman continued his little speech. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but ... everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!" _We need to take him out. John, I'm so sorry…_ She didn't look away, a steady presence at his side.

 _So be it._

He turned to coldly glare at Moriarty. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." _He likes drama. I can pull that off._ He raised the gun, then lowered it to aim at the jacket with deliberate slowness. The jacket with enough Semtex to blow them all into little pieces. Few seconds lapsed before Jim looked back at him, smiling with unconcerned ease.

 _ **# #**_

 **A/N:** Yeah, it's pretty much close to the original. I tried to put more emotional insight, and hope it turned out ok. It'll get crazier in the next chapter, promise :)

Aaaand there is a new chapter in Alternate plots, if you're interested.


	31. Chapter 31 - TGG - Cold droplets

Thank you for the reviews, follows and favs! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

 **Warning:** General Jim craziness, and um... don't panic?

 **# #**

After all these years avoiding being shot to death or accidently overdosing on coffee, Joan didn't imagine dying in an explosion in a swimming pool in London. Wasn't part of her agenda at all. She mentally steadied herself. _At least the pain would be gone. At least Moriarty and Moran would be as dead as me._

She was pulled from her dark thoughts by a muffled music tune. _Stayin' alive, stayin' alive…_ Both Sherlock and she glanced around, confused, but Jim seemed unsurprised. "D'you mind if I get that?" fishing out his phone. _Seriously?!_

"No, no, please. You've got the rest of your life." _And did Sherlock really need to be a smartass here?_

She was suddenly reminded of the headset still in her ear when she heard a distant and distorted female voice answer to Moriarty's "Hello?".

 **# #**

"SAY THAT AGAIN!"

Things took a very strange turn indeed. As much as he struggled to appear collected, Sherlock was having trouble assessing potential developments. A minute ago, he had been ready to set off a bomb, and his nemesis looked quite amenable to it, for the sake of dramatics, of course. Now, the man was threatening someone on the phone.

On his left, Joan's breathing became shaky. They didn't have time or resources to draw it out any longer.

Letting go of his phone call, Jim dropped his happy-go-lucky mask and gazed blankly at them, standing a step away from the bomb. "Sorry. Wrong day to die."

 _Interesting._ "Oh. Did you get a better offer?"

 **# #**

In her ear, Moran hissed indignantly: "Are we letting them get away?"

Jim didn't appear to have heard, but - or maybe it was just her feverish imagination - his eyes flashed with vicious anger. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock" he said. It felt like he was addressing his goons as well. He started to walk away, resuming the conversation on the phone, and there was faint movement in the shadows above, impercetible, _am I just imagining things because I know what must be going on?_

Sebastian wasn't having it that way however: "That wasn't the plan." She felt her heart drop. Only moments to guess what the rogue sniper was about to do. _He wants blood._ _Who will he shoot?_ Sherlock didn't seem to notice anything amiss. "Go to hell" came the snarl in the ear-piece. _Moran is vengeful, cruel, he revels in mentally crushing his victims. I'm his personal enemy. He won't be shooting me first._ It took her less than a second to come to the right conclusion. "She'll pay."

He didn't finish his last sentence yet when Joan hurtled up and forward, aiming to get Sherlock to cover, or at least out of the line of fire.

Several things happened in quick succession: Moriarty snapped his fingers absent-mindedly, making most of red dots go away, except one; Joan collided with Sherlock, making him stagger and fall into the water; the unexpected tackle made the detective press the trigger, and the deafening shot rang through the pool, the bullet miraculously not ricocheting or hitting the bomb, and losing itself somewhere in the dark, making Jim look up in surprise from his little conversation; at the same time a nearly silent pop signaled the firing of a sniper rifle; Joan, who had somehow caught her balance before taking a dive, stumbled forward a step, then fell head first on the tiled floor.

Through mind-numbing pain in her lower back, she was still hearing Moran swear vehemently on the line. The rational part of her piped timidly that _he had only one shot at this and he blew it_. If there was any doubt about a possible concussion earlier, right now, she was certain to have hit the floor hard enough to warrant one. The world was tilting and spinning even behind closed eyelids, making her long for unconsciousness. Then…

"JOHN!" someone called in panic, and Joan forced herself to open her eyes.

 **# #**

He could barely believe that Moriarty was leaving, clearly disinterested in their little game for the moment. They were getting out of this alive and relatively unhurt.

The impression of peace lasted less than half-a-minute.

While he was tracking Jim's retreat, looking out for a sign of deceit, he had missed the distress on his friend's face. Suddenly, something collided with him, sending him sprawling into the pool. He felt the gun recoil, and dreaded for a second the bullet's trajectory would kill them all, but it went off-course.

Finding himself in the abrupt silence underwater, Sherlock's mind whirled at a mad speed to process the new development. _John pushed me into the pool, risking the explosion, while the apparent danger was on the verge of disappearing._ _**I had missed something**_.

Getting past the initial shock, he pushed himself up, the depth was only about one and a half meters. His hair splashed against his skull in a impenetrable curtain, blocking effectively his field of vision. Irritably pushing offending locks back, he first glanced at Moriarty who stood in a perfect embodiment of unpleasant surprise, phone forgotten by his ear. _It wasn't part of the plan then._ Then his attention went back to Joan, who had put him in this rather uncomfortable predicament.

His blood ran cold and the breath caught in his lungs at the sight.

Joan was laying face down on the floor by the water, motionless, one arm floating lifelessly in the water. _No._

Paddling frantically, hindered by wet clothes, Sherlock scurried to the poolside. A smallish dark smear was slowly growing larger on Joan's brown shirt. _No._ "JOHN!" he cried out desperately.

To a small relief, her eyelids fluttered open, but her gaze was unfocused, barely conscious. "John!" He finally reached her side, grabbing her shoulder but completely at a loss as for what to do next. "Talk to me. John." Dried lips stirred weakly, but no sound came out. "Come on." He didn't even think of disguising the anguish in his voice. Moriarty was all but forgotten at this point.

But he was still there.

"Dear me, what a show!" the man clapped slowly to emphasize his point.

 _Evidence:_ _Gunshot wound, entry point between the 11_ _th_ _and the 12_ _th_ _rib, on the left side._

 _Assumption:_ _The intended target had been him._

 _Conclusion:_ _John took a bullet for him._

Still half-immersed in the cool water, Sherlock glared fiercely upwards at the Irishman, murder evident in his eyes. "Don't gimme that look, Sherlock" Jim raised his hands in mock protest. "I don't like my toys broken before time either." He narrowed his eyes dangerously, the vicious snarl flashing on his face again. "It will be taken care of." He must have been wearing a dissimulated communicator, as he appeared to listen to something before nodding absently. "I reeeaaaally must go though. Give my best wishes to Johnny."

If he could, Sherlock would have ripped James's throat out already. But he couldn't leave Joan's side, _not now that she was slipping away_ , and he watched his nemesis disappear, for good this time, in an unlit corridor.

A ringing silence fell upon them, disturbed only by soft murmur of water and Holmes's own labored breathing. _Think, Sherlock_ , intoned Mycroft's voice in his head.

He was no use while being stuck in the pool. In a great splash, he hoisted himself out, scrambling to Joan's prone form on his knees, not bothering to get up properly.

 _Assess the damage._

The blood wasn't gushing out, a good sign, but the stain was steadily spreading.

 _Provide first aid._

He regretted not paying enough attention to this part of his self-education. _Laying face to the floor isn't very favorable to_ breathing, he decided. _Breathing is good._ He attempted to gently turn Joan on her back. But he didn't take into account residual pain from previous abuse, and felt her body tense slightly, a pained grunt making him panic again.

 _Call for help._

He patted his pockets in frenzy, searching for the phone. Unfortunately, it hadn't taken well to the short dip in the pool and refused to power up. John's phone had obviously been removed by Moriarty. And he refused to leave her side for any amount of time in search of a possibly non-existent landline.

Sherlock found himself wishing for Mycroft's monitors to pick up his whereabouts soon enough to send in competent help.

"You okay?" A faint whisper broke his thoughts. Dulled blue eyes watched him with resigned fondness.

"If you can talk, tell me what to do" he demanded immediately, arms flailing over her, not quite touching. She blinked slowly at him, possibly suppressing a wave of pain.

"'S all good. Just a scratch. 'll be fine" Joan mumbled, taking deep shuddering breaths before each sentence.

"John, you're a doctor and should know that a gunshot wound can't be qualified as a scratch" he spoke in reproach, almost tripping over his words.

She winced at him. "'ll be fine" she repeated more forcefully. "Just hurts."

"That's the problem!" Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated, and honestly feeling more and more clueless by the minute. His (presumably only) friend was hurting, presumably by his fault, was possibly bleeding to death, and there was nothing in his power to do to stop it, _and that is too many conjectures, not good, this is all far from good_.

"…nt worry" Joan mouthed weakly, voice fading into a sigh. She was losing the battle to stay conscious.

"No, no, stay with me, John, please! John!" he pleaded. He could see the effort Watson was making to try to satisfy his selfish request ( _Isn't it something first-responders were supposed to do? Keep the patient conscious? Or is it just another movie myth?_ ) "Please…" His voice broke, eliciting a twitchy frown from Joan, but her features were already slacking into blank slumber, unresponsive. "John. John! JOHN!" He grabbed her, ignoring any damage he could do manhandling her like this, trying to keep his friend awake.

 **# #**

Doors banged open on the other end of the room, allowing masked men in protective gear to swarm the pool. They quickly secured the perimeter, zeroing on the explosive vest. Sherlock remained hunched over his passed-out blogger, awkwardly trying to both shield her and track all movement around them.

Someone must have given an all-clear, and part of the SCO team left the main room. In their place, a haggard-looking Lestrade burst through the door, eyes wild, followed closely by a very tense Donovan and a flock of constables. It took them _four seconds_ to notice their lonesome forms on the poolside and scurry towards them. Seeing Sherlock's dripping wet frame and Joan's unresponsive body, Greg cursed under his breath. "MEDICS! Now!"

He gingerly knelt down, painfully aware of Holmes going into deep shock. The young detective was shaking violently, but did not seem to notice his own state, gaze running from Watson's pale face to surrounding activity, pupils so blown that his eyes looked like black holes. It was a harsh reminder of his drug days - the drawn traits, the dazed eyes. "Sherlock" Greg tried. He tried really hard to ignore his heart dropping at the sight of the immobile and deathly pale army doctor sprawled on the floor. _God, why John…?_

Unseeing stare focused on him, and a glimpse of recognition swiftly morphed in a barely hidden relief. "Lestrade." The usually unflappable tone was gone, Holmes's voice was as bare as his heart, and Greg's chest tightened. The man might be an arrogant ass most of the time, but he could never stop himself from caring about the genius, even if it made him feel like an underpaid babysitter on the best of days. This... this was not what the DI wanted to happen to his consultant, far from it.

"It's alright, paramedics are on their way" he started calmly. He glanced down from the silver stare to the unmoving soldier in Sherlock's arms. He sagged in temporary relief at seeing the slow but sure rising of her chest. _Breathing._ "You should lay her down" he advised, aiming for a neutral and calming tone, but coming as stressed. Sherlock's grip on his blogger tightened, but he let go eventually, lowering Joan down with unseen gentleness. Once he lost his burden, his hands hovered briefly in the air, then he wrapped them around his waist, hiding tremors and gathering some warmth. It still left him hunched protectively over Joan's body. "We should get you out of here" Lestrade continued, trying to catch the younger man's eyes. This earned him a deer-in-the-headlights, half-panicked half-affronted glare.

"I'm not leaving John" Sherlock enunciated, every syllable punctuated with taut shakes of the head. Cold droplets of water flew all around from his soaked hair, making Lestrade wince both in surprise and defeat. At least, Holmes sounded coherent.

He was about to try a different approach, when paramedics finally rushed in, weaving between still hovering SCO members. They pushed the DI back, and tried to do so with Holmes, but Sherlock glued himself to Joan's arm, refusing to let go. "Sir, we need access to the patient" soothingly explained one of them. Her colleague was already pulling a heat-blanket from his bag, covering the shivering detective in it.

Sherlock lost another couple of precious seconds staring blankly at people gathering around him, then something seemed to click in his head and he fired a rapid string of instructions in a surprisingly steady voice, even if Lestrade could hear the uprising terror behind the words: "She was shot in the back, between the eleventh and the twelfth ribs on the left side, sniper rifle 7.62mm caliber most likely. Dislocated left shoulder, she had a previous injury, the shoulder had been reconstructed with metal holdings, and it had probably been displaced. Might have other blunt injuries to internal organs. Concussion from the fall from her own height, subsequent to the shooting." He finally took a breath, which was interrupted by dry coughs that rocked his skinny frame. Everyone in vicinity blinked in shock at him, but luckily paramedics had retained their professionalism, and their assessment had concurred the strange man's information.

Joan was rapidly hoisted on a stretcher and wheeled out of the building. Unable to follow the quick pace, Sherlock stumbled after her, supported by a frowning paramedic whose hand he tried to shake every couple of minutes. He presented a sore sight, with his mop of hair plastered on his skull, wrapped in a blanket and shivering, looking lost and painfully young.

Not seeing any value in staying either, Lestrade trailed behind, ready to help if needed. They exited the thrice damned pool just in time to see Joan being loaded on an ambulance that immediately sped away. Remembering Sherlock's rant on the doctor's injuries, the DI repressed a shiver. _What the hell happened to these two?_ The consulting detective was gently coaxed towards another ambulance. The fight seemed to have left him once his precious blogger was brought out of sight, and he followed meekly.

At least, that had been the case until Sherlock noticed a slick black car at the edge of the police cordon. Greg had barely the time to notice the predatory flash of rage on the younger man's face before he lurched away from the surprised medic, and covered the distance to the car in long, if a bit unsteady, strides.

Having a good idea about what was about to happen, Lestrade hurried after him. They had barely avoided death casualties for the evening, it wouldn't do to have a fratricide in the middle of a crime scene.

The impassive government official detached himself from the car, his dignified and bored stance a striking contrast to his disheveled and rightfully furious brother. "Impressive show-down, brother dear" he drawled, annoying the hell out of every living person in hearing radius.

"Mycroft" Sherlock hissed in response, swaying a little when he came to an abrupt stop before the umbrella-holding man. He made a considerable effort to not punch his brother, judging by continuous clenching and unclenching of his fists. At that moment, he looked so much like an angry cat that took a dip in a lake, that Lestrade would have laughed out loud if the situation wasn't so dire. He couldn't forget that one half of the consulting duo had just been sent to a hospital with a bullet in her back, nor the six kilograms of Semtex the bomb-disposal team had just extracted from the building.

"Why didn't you intervene?" growled Sherlock. He rocked on the balls of his feet, either from exhaustion or from the willful effort not to devolve into physical violence.

Mycroft Holmes looked down his nose, something akin to regret appearing for a second in his otherwise calculating eyes. "Believe it or not, I have been taken by other urgent business, Sherlock. The surveillance team failed to inform me of any anomalies during that time. They will face consequences."

All aggression drained suddenly from Sherlock, and he visibly sagged in defeat, radiating confused helplessness. "Six hours, Mycroft." Greg strained to hear the hollow whisper, not that he could understand the meaning, but it seemed to be like a punch in the gut to the older Holmes. "And that bullet was meant for me." The DI felt all blood drain from his face. _That would explain the dive in the pool._ "The one time I needed you to be there. Just this one time, Mycroft." The addressed man didn't avoid his gaze, but he visibly lost some of his arrogance. Sherlock continued glaring reproachfully at his brother for long silent minutes, sadly eliciting no additional reaction.

"Sherlock" Lestrade ended by calling out. "We should get to the hospital." Both Holmeses gave him a blank stare. While Mycroft turned back with a slight nod that could have passed for a nervous jerk of his chin, Sherlock's eyes locked on his, impossibly wide. The consulting detective started trembling again, underneath the shock blanket, his face going through a frightening range of emotions Lestrade couldn't begin to identify. He opted for the safest option: "Come on, let's go."

 **# #**

 **A/N:** I'm taking a bit of poetic license on the whole shooting thing. The scene played out in my head so nicely, I couldn't resist. And I don't know much about guns, beyond what a quick google search (and a half-forgotten experience with an air-rifle about twelve years ago) could give me, so sorry 'bout that too, just in case.


	32. Chapter 32 - TGG - The hospital

Still not dead. Thank you for the reviews, follows and favs! :)

 **A/N:** A bit shorter than previous chapters, unfortunately, but another one is on the way.

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

 **# #**

The ride to the hospital passed in a haze of cold, pain and numbing fear. There were so many things that could go wrong, _and Joan wouldn't wake up, ever._ He couldn't accept this. He couldn't accept even the possibility of _that_ happening.

His brain didn't register how they got into the emergency room, or who lead him to an examination table, or when dry clothes appeared before him, with Lestrade gently coaxing him to change. His mind had been stuck in a loop, replaying all events of the evening, of the whole week, searching for the missing detail, something that would have saved Joan. He was unable to find it.

He came back to himself in a gloomy waiting room, hunched on an uncomfortable chair. A lightbulb flickered unnervingly every few seconds. A soft snore to his left indicated the continued presence of one DI Lestrade. _What is taking so long?_

 _It was all your fault,_ drawled a bored voice that resembled Mycroft in the mind palace. _John was shot_ , supplied another voice, wavering and uncertain. It was the voice of a frightened child.

 _Evidence : __John had protected him._

 _Assumption:_ _If she survives... DELETE._

 _"If" is unacceptable. " **When** ", it has to be "when"._

 _She will continue to place herself in harm's way to protect him._ Something fuzzy and warm rose in his chest at this thought, but he squelched it mercilessly on the altar of rational thought.

 _Conclusion:_ _Sooner or later, John's willingness to protect him would prove to be fatal to her._ He couldn't repress a violent shudder at the thought. The helpless horror at the sight of the bomb and the red dot dancing on the blogger's chest was painfully sharp and fresh in his memory.

 _Recommended course of action, option A : __keep functioning as normal. Pros – John's continued presence. Cons – high probability of John's untimely death. REJECTED._

 _Recommended course of action, option B : __cut the ties with John. Pros – John's extended life expectancy. Cons – lon…_ He cut himself short at this one. _I am not **lonely** , am I?_ Somehow, memories of the stale air in his old room at Montague street, coffee stains and dry bread, came to mind. It had felt safe and quiet, because no one had ever bothered to disturb him there… but then there was the dust waltzing through sun beams at Baker street, the hot tea and the constant nagging about keeping kitchen hazard-free, and there was this fuzzy feeling again, making him realize in a moment of lightning clarity how content he had felt for these few months, despite bouts of boredom ( _never quite that bad, actually, not like the ones before the rehab_ ) and occasional bickering. So yes, he would be very lonely without Joan Watson in his life.

But then she'd be alive. _Alive is very good, right?_

Sherlock Holmes had claimed left and right to be a sociopath, and he was sorely tempted to use this excuse to keep his friend close, to selfishly put Joan in mortal danger just to not feel _alone_ again. But he couldn't quite bring himself to make this decision. The image of his doctor, laying motionless at the pool side, trying in vain to remain conscious for his sake, sprung up to the front of his mind, overlaying the explosives and the red dots.

 _No._

He had managed alone just fine, for so many years. He would have to get used to it again, that's all.

 **# #**

Joan woke up slowly, floating in and out of consciousness. Her body felt sore all over. There seemed to be no muscle or bone that didn't ache. Soft beeping and distant murmur of voices and clothes rustling were like a lullaby. At some point, a nagging worry came spoiling her dream-like state. She had to talk to someone, someone important. Couldn't quite place who exactly, though.

After an uncertain amount of time, her mind sluggishly identified the beeping as the heart monitor. Hospital. Why would she be in a hospital? Last time was harrowing enough.

 _Last time she had been discharged from the army_.

The not-so-old painful memory sharpened her thoughts for a moment, bringing out other bits and pieces with it – coming back to London, meeting Sherlock, the pool, Moran.

The beeping intensified, and someone rushed into the room, fumbling with something over her head.

Feeling the warmth from a morphine dip spreading through her veins, Joan forced herself to crack an eyelid before succumbing to the numbness. But the light was too harsh, and she didn't even manage to see the nurse's face.

 **# #**

The dreamless sleep dissolved very slowly. Joan felt herself emerging from the misty plains of unconsciousness, feeling slightly better than before her unplanned sedation by morphine. She blinked her eyes open, lazily cataloguing aches and sores. Her back felt especially tender, and she could barely feel her left arm, which was secured in a sling. The light was subdued, probably meaning that it was night-time. She sighed heavily, thinking of the long weeks she would have to be extremely careful with weight lifting and sudden movement.

A sharp intake of breath at her right surprised her more than it should have.

Sherlock had sprawled across a plastic chair, keeping silent vigil over his blogger. The position should have been very uncomfortable, but he didn't seem to notice it. He made it look like a very plush chair.

"Hey there" Joan whispered, suddenly realizing how dry her throat was, ghost memories of the desert heat flashing in her mind and dissolving just as quickly as they came. _He looks so tired, and closed off._

Something indecipherable passed in Sherlock's eyes, and his hand twitched. "I will appreciate if you considered new living arrangements, once you are discharged, Joan." His tone was business-like, cold and carefully distanced. It was the second time ever he called her by the real given name.

"Pardon?" she managed softly. Residual drugs in her system seemed to stunt her cognitive process. _Is he throwing me out of the flat?_

"I will cover the additional fees, of course…" he carried on, dispassionately.

Joan shut her eyes tightly, trying to not feel her heart breaking. This cold voice was killing her. " **Don't**." Sherlock obediently shut up. "May I ask what brought this up?" Instinctively she adopted the same all-business tone as her unexpected tormentor.

There was a short pause, followed by a hollow explanation: "Recent events proved that your presence not only impeded my investigative process, but is a liability in crisis situations. I don't wish my Work hindered by incompetent bystanders." Her eyes flew open at the barely veiled insult. _He strikes exactly where it hurts._ But despite his cutting words, Sherlock wasn't quick enough to school his features into a blank mask. For a few seconds, Joan saw the raw pain and heart-break in his eyes. He was killing her, but doing so was shattering him as well.

 _Oh, that idiot._

 _That bloody idiot._

Raging anger burnt through drugs, giving free way to the emotional maelstrom she was currently in. Reigning in the outburst – _wait for it_ – she enunciated quietly: "And how did you come to this brilliant conclusion?"

The genius hadn't caught up on the trap he fell in. "As I have stated, your presence is…"

 _Alright, no, screw this._ The ex-soldier couldn't listen to more of this dribble. She sat up brusquely, feeling like her back was splitting open, ( _to hell with tissue damage,_ said a glum voice in her head), and violently pulled IV needles from her arms. Small droplets of blood stained hospital sheets, but she was above caring. Grimacing in pain, Watson swung her feet out of the bed, relishing the cold floor under her soles. Various monitors started beeping alarmingly all around them.

"John!" Sherlock protested, jumping up immediately, and losing momentarily his _You are a nuisance_ mask. _So, you do worry, huh._

Pushing back the pain from unhealed wounds, Joan marched up to her oblivious flatmate. He took a hesitant step back under her glare, clearly confused. "Do you mind telling me the real reason for this idiocy?" Sherlock sputtered in indignation. She grasped his collar with her right hand, pulling him towards her. "Tell me why you thought that I should hate you" she growled menacingly, not bothering to hide her outrage anymore.

Silver eyes widened in an almost comical deer-in-the-headlights look. The soldier didn't soften her grip. "I… you… you could have died" the detective finally muttered, looking everywhere but at her. _That's what I thought. He assumed that I would prefer a quiet life to his company._

"Do you realize I had been dancing with death most of my life?" she hissed. "It is a choice I made before even meeting you." He opened his mouth to interrupt, probably to point out how much of a risk-hazard he was, but Joan was having none of it. " **Stuff it**. You're stuck with me. You're not going into danger alone. **Ever**." Seeing the understanding _finally_ sink in, she released his shirt and swayed slightly on her feet.

The worried frown quickly replaced the mix of confused and smug emotions on the pale face. "John…" Hearing nurses running towards the room in the distance, Joan let go of her stubborn anger, and simply bumped her head against Sherlock's chest, seeking emotional and physical support.

"Idiot" she whispered tiredly. Her throat burned now.

Medical personnel burst into the room, frozen in shock at the scene inside. Watson could imagine the surprise of seeing a shooting victim standing up mere hours after surgery, head on the shoulder of a slightly dazed consulting detective, surrounded by a cacophony of beeping monitors.

"I'm sorry, John" Sherlock whispered for her ears only, before nurses nudged her back to the bed. It seemed sincere.

 **# #**

She woke up the next morning to the sight of Sherlock leafing through her medical chart. "Anything interesting?" she asked groggily.

He looked up, a particularly smug look on his face. "Hilda." _Ah._

"Shut up" she grumbled, irritated and amused at the same time, and pressed the button to call the nurse.

 **# #**

 **A/N:** Aaaand here it is! I hope the name didn't disappoint too many people ^^

I wanted it to be a bit outdated, enough for Joan to hate it, but have a good meaning ("Hilda" = "woman of battle", so it looks fitting).


	33. Chapter 33 - Holiday with a friend

Thank you for reviews, follows & favs! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

 **Warning:** Language. This one is kinda dark.

 **# #**

Days, and especially nights, after the release from the hospital hadn't been easy. As her body mended itself (it was dumb luck that the bullet struck a rib and didn't actually do much damage), her mind struggled with the constant knowledge that Moran was out there, free to roam the world and free to threaten her and hers again. It gave birth to particularly nasty nightmares, that only quelled when Sherlock took up playing soothing pieces on his violin every night after dinner. He clearly deduced that she didn't spent six hours having drinks with army buddies, but he couldn't possibly know every detail of what had happened. And Joan simply refused to talk about it.

But it couldn't go on like this. She needed closure.

And she knew exactly who could help her get it.

 **# #**

"How's it going, Sev?"

"Same old, same old. And you?"

"Oh, the usual too."

"You don't say, Jay." She could hear the smile in his voice. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Are you in town?"

"Maybe."

"I need a favor."

"Anything."

 **# #**

Sebastian Moran didn't make it that far in life by being a mindless brute. He was violent, yes, but his cunning and self-preserving instincts were greater than his need for destruction. When he disobeyed Moriarty's direct orders and took the shot, he knew that he would be hunted. But the vengeance was too sweet to pass up. And he had long ago prepared for the eventuality of being on the run.

He had left the country as soon as possible, changing flights and trains for several days, never staying for more than a few hours in one place. He wasn't Jim's priority, and when things calmed down, maybe he could get back into the good graces of the crazy bastard. His skillset was unique enough to have a fighting chance.

His only regret was not killing Watson or her snotty detective friend.

Living on the edge for days could take a tall on a body. So he settled on taking a day to unwind in New Zealand, in a sufficiently secluded place to feel safe for several hours. Moran crashed on his bed, not even bothering taking off his shoes.

He awoke to a faint rustling somewhere in the room. _Shit._

Very slowly, trying not to betray his awareness, his hand slid to the gun tucked into his belt. An amused snort came from the darkness, and he jerked up in one fluid movement, taking aim at the shadowy figure.

A dry click near his temple informed Moran that he underestimated his opponents. There were two of them. And he was screwed.

The light flicked on, and Sebastian had the unpleasant surprise to discover one Captain Joan Watson leaning casually against the wall, measuring him with a dispassionate scowl. The shock must have shown on his face, as she smirked coldly: "Surprise, Sebby."

There was a light prick on his neck. _Drugs._ He continued to glare heatedly at Watson until the dizziness overtook his mind.

 **# #**

Once the ex-sniper was out for the count, Joan dropped her icy front and sagged a little. "Nice injection."

"Your crash course stuck" answered her companion, a tall blond man dressed entirely in black, eyeing the fallen enemy with scorn. "What's the program?" Joan waited for him to look her in the eyes.

"Seven. Are you with me no matter what?"

"All the way, Jay." She sighed at the readiness of his answer. _Of course, he is. If I wanted to be stopped, I'd have called Hendricks._

"Get him on the table and secure him so that he wouldn't move. At all. I have a promise to keep. I'll check his luggage for anything interesting when I'm ready."

While Seven was grunting under the weight of a grown man, Doctor Watson swung into action, pulling a fully furnished medical case from a dark corner. She had smuggled it all the way to the end of the world, and she was going to use it.

After half-an-hour, Moran started coming back to himself. Joan nodded to her friend to stay vigil, tossed him the sniper's laptop, and slipped into her predatory persona. "Rise and shine" she sing-sang. It had the merit of making 'Sebby' jerk against his restraints.

"Watson" he grunted hatefully.

"Moran" she answered, still watching him down her nose.

"How did you find me?"

"Does it matter, Sebby? No one else will find you now… alive, that is" she drawled.

"You don't have the balls" he growled in a self-assured bravado.

A lizard smile crawled on her face, seeding doubt in Moran's mind. She leant over him, almost touching his nose with hers. She didn't fear a head-butt, Seven had secured the neck as well, and the man really couldn't do more than grunt and sputter. "I know your opinions about women having balls, Sebby" she purred. Taking wry pleasure in the unsettled look on his crude face, she continued, still hovering over him like a spectre of doom. "But do you remember? I promised to cut you up." Now he was scared alright. "I may be... what did you call me back then, when you got kicked out of the army? A vile b itch? And maybe I am. But I'm not a liar."

She straightened up, a cold smirk frozen on her face. "Anesthetics first, of course. We're not barbarians, right? Well, I have some doubts about you, but **we** certainly aren't."

The man jerked violently against his restraints, in vain, sweat gathering on his brow. He looked terrified. _Good._

"Tell me about Jim" she asked absently, while making quite a show of preparing the syringe.

"Go to hell" the idiot hissed.

"After you, then." The operation took about an hour (could have finished it in under twenty minutes, but Joan took her sweet time). At the end of it, Moran was just a shivering stinky mess of a man, who stubbornly refused to spill any secrets. Joan observed her job, rolling her shoulders to crack the neck. _The bastard had it coming_. _And his silence is absolutely useless, since we can crack his laptop._ Seven hadn't moved from his post, watching the procedure with grim satisfaction.

"Well, it is well done, I'd say" Watson commented, dropping the by-product of the operation in the garbage bin. "You had no use for it anyway." A shuddering breath escaped Moran. He wasn't in pain, the anesthetic effects had no time to dissipate yet. However, the running commentary Joan kept going during the operation might have broken him a bit. She looked him in the eyes, to see the unaltered hate and mind-sucking fear. "I could let you live like that, you know. You could function normally… unless you catch an infection here. Can't say it was very sanitary, and all."

She pulled off disposable gloves and tucked them in a specifically prepared container. They weren't leaving any DNA behind.

"But I remember every kid that came for treatment after spending some 'private' time with you. I remember the bombs, the one you set off in an apartment complex." She consciously omitted her own time with him and that dear Jim. There were plenty of reasons besides _that_ one. "I remember the name on the bullet you shot in the pool." She finally let him see her own hate, her blazing fury. _He isn't going anywhere near Sherlock. Ever._ _Of that, I can make sure._ "Living would be too easy for you."

The scalpel was light as usual in her hand. Being a doctor gave one a plethora of choices for granting death.

"So, I'll just let you bleed out like a pig you are." She made two small incisions on both thighs, on femoral arteries. "Enjoy, Sebby."

The man started to struggle violently, gurgling insults and threats. She watched in silence as the feared sniper succumbed slowly to blood-loss. Seven stood by her, silent support to her bloody revenge. _Always there, but never enough to save me from myself._

"I don't want it on my file" she said quietly. "You should take credit."

"As you wish" he answered evenly.

 **# #**

They had parted at Heathrow three days later. Seven grabbed her bag from the conveyer, gave her a bear hug, kissed her on the cheek and disappeared in the crowd without a word. His face and posture didn't betray anything, but she knew how to read his cues. He had been furious at Moran, and hated himself for not preventing the whole ordeal in the first place ( _how exactly was he supposed to do that?_ ). He was rather satisfied with what they've done, but somewhat guilty about letting her do it. And of course, he didn't want her to find out, making the internal struggle even more obvious. _Idiot... I am surrounded by idiots._

The laptop had been cracked and combed through before they even headed back. Seven had copied the info for her, and took the prize back to the office. Moran had been a high-ranking lieutenant in Moriarty's network, and some documents he kept as safeguards were priceless.

Joan sighed heavily and made her way to the taxi waiting line. The ride back to Baker Street was silent. _Silence before the storm._ There was no way to tell whether Sherlock would notice the lie by omission - she had simply announced one day that a friend was inviting her to a vacation in New Zealand and left the same evening. And it had been a friendly trip overall... except that one night where they tortured and killed an internationally wanted rogue sniper. _Just the usual, nothing to see, pass along. Yeah, I can see how that will work out._

At some level, the doctor knew she should be horrified at what they've done. But years of tough decisions and horrible mistakes taught her that some people just had to be eliminated. When an enemy is shooting at your squad, you don't think about a fair trial - you shoot back. In a twisted way (and she recognized that normal folks would be appalled), it made sense to her, to Seven, to all of their clique.

Baker Street greeted her with sounds of vials clinging in the kitchen and something hissing. _It'd better not be acids in a pan._ Joan dropped her duffel bag by the stairs and peeked inside. Sherlock was glued to a microscope, jolting down notes with one hand. "Hey" she said loud enough for him to hear.

There was a passing glance, only a few seconds, but he must have catalogued every crease in her shirt. "How was the trip?" he asked, as if she had just popped out to get groceries. He was frowning slightly, something the doctor wouldn't have noticed a month prior. _He had been worried._

"Relaxing" Joan smiled back. With Moran gone, she knew she'd be able to sleep again. Sherlock huffed, and turned back to his analysis, barely noticeable tension draining from his shoulders. "Do we have milk?"

 **# #**

 **A/N:** I wasn't entirely sure about including this whole sub-plot, but couldn't have Sebby re-emerge at an inconvenient time, and it ties up nicely with something I planned for much later.

I won't clarify what exactly Joan did to Moran here. First, because I'm not quite sure myself. Second, because I'm not a medical professional, so better keep it vague. Third... let's just leave the level of goriness to your imaginations, ok? Turns out Joan has a cruel streak. But then again, she spent years in a war zone, it can change a person. It's not that far from shooting the cabbie in terms of the moral ground, I'd say (ok, it's much more messed up, but the baseline idea is the same - eliminate the dangerous element asap).

And yeah, Sev = Seven. Not very helpful, I know :)


	34. Chapter 34 - The row

Thank you for the follows, reviews and favs! :)

 **A/N:** As you might know, there is a bit of a time lapse between the Great Game and the Scandal in Belgravia. That's what happened during that summer in my version :) It was supposed to be two chapters, but I'm going on vacation, and it wouldn't do to leave a cliffie for too long (the cut is marked with a ***** , just so you know how evil that would have been).

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

 **# #**

It was mid-May, and Joan had somewhat processed and dealt with the emotional trauma from the pool incident and whatever happened during her trip to the other side of the world. Her physiotherapist back home was a slave-driver, but the motion range and the sensitivity in the left arm were returning, slowly but surely, to normal. Or at least the 'normal' established before meeting Jim.

Sherlock, in the other hand, was still tip-toeing around her. The relative calm was much appreciated for a couple of days, but started to get rather ridiculous after a week. It reached a boiling point when the detective washed the dishes. With actual, honest to God, soap.

"Alright, that's enough" Joan snapped, having discovered the kitchen counter in pristine condition in the morning. Sherlock glanced at her over the paper, surprised at the outburst. "Out with it. What's wrong?"

"You'll have to elaborate, John" the man looked thoroughly confused at the situation.

Joan closed her eyes to count to ten, then took a sit at the kitchen table. Which was void of any lab equipment. _That's very disturbing_ , she noted absently. "I know I'm always complaining about cleaning, but it worries me even more when you actually do it. What's wrong?"

Holmes stared blankly for a minute before a small smile tugged at his lips. "Nothing. I'm in the middle of an experiment, if you must know."

The doctor leaned back. "Really?"

"Yes." The sharp intonation indicated that the conversation was over. _Prat._ "Now, do you mind fetching some butter in the fridge?"

Wary, she complied, pulling the fridge's door open with caution. However, no safety measure could have prepared her for the sight. _Wh… it… UGH. This is… this…_ "SHERLOCK!" the ex-soldier roared, slamming the poor appliance shut. There was shuffling of paper and Joan found herself glaring at the top of Sherlock's head, while he was filling in some sort of checklist at an impressive speed. _Experiment, huh._ "Sherlock Holmes" Captain Watson growled in warning. "What have you done to our food?"

"Nothing you haven't seen before, John" the accused replied without looking up, too busy finishing his graphs. "Just some fast-growing black mold, not very exciting. I needed to document your genuine reaction to it, however."

Joan felt her eyelid twitch. "My reaction?" She was rather surprised at the stillness of her voice. _I'm not strangling my flatmate, I'm not strangling my flatmate..._

"Yes. You are an invaluable resource to gauge the potential reaction to unexpected stimuli. Allows to me to adjust the settings before the next raid by the Met." He finally looked up, and cocked an eyebrow at her. "Problem?"

Feeling the initial anger lose ground to bemusement, Joan counted to five this time before answering. "How long have been setting 'traps' for them to find?"

"After the second time they'd done it" he smirked. Joan sighed heavily, last bits of righteous fury fading away. "Are you mad?"

"Not much" the doctor replied, falling back onto the chair and running a hand through her hair. "But you're cleaning it today." Her mad scientist of a flatmate rolled his eyes, but nodded. "What else should I be aware of?"

Sherlock taped the pen against his chin in thought. "Avoid the microwave" he finally stated, eliciting a weary laugh from her. _Well, I was probably overthinking it. He's back to normal._

She pulled the scattered papers closer. "Want to add a real medical touch to it?"

 **# #**

"How the hell was I supposed to know that?" Joan was fuming. Sherlock took a cautious step back, but made his own displeasure quite apparent.

"I don't know, John, maybe by actually **looking** this time!"

They were standing in front of an old warehouse, illuminated by headlights and flashing sirens. Their latest catch was lead to the patrol car in handcuffs by a scowling Donovan. The rest of the police force kept stealing glances at them from a safe distance.

"You explicitly told me to go left, Sherlock. How was I to understand that it actually meant 'go straight then take the second turn right'?!" Joan had a point that Sherlock did not want to concede. They had almost lost the thief at the very last moment!

"You need to get better at picking up the clues. We were lucky this moron got lost in his own warehouse."

The doctor's glare could have turned him into ashes. "Picking up the clues, seriously?! It'd be much easier to think of a code."

 _OH._ Sherlock's discontent at the case's resolution promptly melted away at the prospect of a new project. He looked at Joan wide-eyed, as if hearing her say anything remotely coherent for the first time ever. "That's… actually a very good idea, John." He grabbed her hand and pulled towards the main road, disregarding the sputtered protests. "Come, we need to start working on it now."

 **# #**

July came around. After the flashy stand-off in Soho, there had been a lull in cases. While Joan occupied herself with typing out her case notes about superheroes and ninjas _,_ Sherlock was getting increasingly restless. Perhaps, he had gotten too used to have quality stimulation for his brain, but these few days felt like some sort of gruesome torture. No clients. No running experiments that kept his interest. No cases from Lestrade. Not even a phone call from Mycroft. **Nothing.** Even the violin didn't soothe him anymore.

"John" he called from the couch. The blogger hummed in response from the kitchen. "I'm bored."

"You are not touching my gun" came the unforgiving verdict.

"But Joooohn…"

"If you want to shoot things" she said sternly, coming in full view with two steaming cups of tea, "you come to the shooting range with me. It's not negotiable."

Sherlock rapidly estimated the walking distance to the shooting range John haunted occasionally, the potential affluence in the afternoon, and concluded that it was too much effort and not enough challenge. "Jooooooohn" he pleaded again, this time schooling his features into what Joan called his 'kicked puppy look'. She just rolled her eyes while placing the mug full of tea on the coffee table.

"Do you want me to call Lestrade for you?" she inquired after _seven minutes, forty-two seconds_ of silence.

"Already done" he drawled. "He got nothing on."

"Did you suggest taking a look at cold cases?" Sherlock perked up at this. Cold cases, while rarely difficult, presented the challenge of having no crime scene and only second-hand reports to work with. It was far from his usual exercises, but beggars can't be choosers. He lunged for his phone.

 **# #**

Unfortunately, this distraction didn't last as long as expected. Five hours later, he was back from NSY, having dumped his conclusions upon Lestrade (and a haggard Dimmock), and bored again. Joan was curled on her chair, texting someone with a soft smile. "I'm bored" Sherlock announced to the room before even taking off his coat.

"Jesus, Holmes!" Joan looked up, startled, and removing small earbuds that prevented her from hearing the bored menace coming up stairs. Distant sounds of drums and guitars vibrated in the air until she hit pause.

Sherlock huffed and dropped into his own chair. "Bored, John."

"Already?" she sounded resigned.

"Always" he grinned back in a rare moment of self-depreciation, before his brain supplied an alternative. "Can I borrow your skirt?"

"My sk… what?!"

"For science, John!" he sprang up, ready to rush upstairs, but a steady hand caught the back of his shirt.

"Don't you dare try and ruin the only skirt I own" growled the irritated soldier from the chair.

"You never wear it!"

"It's part of my dress uniform!"

"My point exactly, you never wear it and never will again!" The words left his mouth without a second thought, and he kept on tugging John's fingers away from his shirt, when they unclasped by themselves to his disappointment. He expected more of a fight, was counting on it even.

Looking around, Sherlock was met with a deeply hurt expression on Joan's face that was quickly clouded by a rising tide of anger. _Uh-oh._ Rewinding the conversation in his mind, he winced at his own gaffe.

 _Fact:_ _John is still sensitive about being discharged._

 _Fact:_ _I just reminded her of it, and intended to destroy one of her few souvenirs from the army days._

 _Suggested course of action :_ _Placate._

"Um…" he started, unsure. Joan's glare intensified, and she finally got up. In other circumstances, Sherlock would have to admire the readiness of her combat stance and the obvious killing intent that filled the room in seconds. "John?"

Her voice was deceptively sweet: "You are not to touch my clothes."

He took a step back and raised his hands in a calming gesture: "Concern noted."

It didn't seem to appease her all that much, but she looked less likely to jump at his throat now. "Whatever" she huffed, while brushing past him, heading for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

 _Well, that went well_ , mocked Mycroft's voice in his head. But he was still bored.

 **# #**

Joan had intended to go for a run that day anyway. She just had a valid reason to angrily glare at passersbys while stretching in the nearby park to warm up. While the burning feeling subdued a bit, people were still avoiding her. An unfortunate soul bumped into her when she was getting up from redoing her laces, and gave a high-pitched yelp. Apparently, she forgot to stop glaring.

"This is utterly tedious" suddenly said a familiar voice literally in her ear.

It was her turn to yelp, while lunging to the right, ready to parry. Sherlock smiled condescendingly at her. "Can't I have a moment of peace?" she growled, unamused.

"How mundane" he drawled in response.

"Go get un-bored elsewhere." She grabbed the smallish bottle of mineral water from the thigh holster and violently unscrewed the top. "I'm not in the mood."

"What are you doing here anyway?" Sherlock inquired, blatantly ignoring her mutterings.

"It's a park, Sherlock" she found herself explaining despite her best judgement. "A public area. Some people come here to exercise in **peace**." The accent on the last word was evident, but not to Holmes.

"As I said, tedious." He glanced at her. "It clearly doesn't work for you."

Joan felt her left eyebrow twitch. _Doesn't work for me. You arrogant little…_

"Watch it, git. I'm still fit enough to take you out."

She should have recognized the gleam in those eyes. "Prove it."

 **# #**

He tailed Joan to the park, for lack of better things to do. His survival instincts might be dormant most of the time, but he wasn't about to experiment on her clothes after the scene they just had. Not for another week at least. Joan was however his primary source of entertainment during off-cases periods. He was bound to find something interesting while following her.

Seeing the ex-soldier doing furious sit-ups on a deserted lawn, he smirked. Physical exercise to steam off the anger. Basic, but effective. _Does it work for boredom?_

He marched back to Baker Street to change into his (rarely used) sport clothes, and rushed back, a mind-folder already filling with details of the experiment.

 _Tested Hypothesis :_ _physical exercise as a temporary solution to boredom._

 _Required conditions :_ _one-on-one fight controlled environment._

 _Bonus objective :_ _assessment of John's battle technics._

 _Processing data._ _Fact:_ _John is likely (84%) to avoid hurting me in a mock-fight. Estimating possible alternatives._ _Fact:_ _Anger will lower (-3% to -17% by insult) John's tolerance for my antics._

 _Suggested course of action :_ _get John angry enough to fight me seriously._

 _Protocol 14.2 engaged._

"Prove it."

 **# #**

Joan glared silently at him, before jerking her chin towards rather secluded clearing behind a bush of trees. "You're on" she said darkly, feeling quite murderous. She had just noticed that the consulting git was wearing sport clothes. _He planned this._ The understanding of the ruse just made her more irritated. It never sat well with the doctor being manipulated into doing something. Pulling on her half-mittens to prevent some of the damage to the knuckles, she glanced over to her flatmate, whose skinny frame was a striking contrast to the usual muscle mountains she had to train with. She wasn't fooled, having seen the man in action, _but he is sooooo up for a surprise._

They circled each other, gauging the opponent. Sherlock took the first swing, that Joan easily side-stepped. He lunged again, and this time she blocked and countered. He barely avoided it, initial glee slightly fading from his face. _He started to realize that he might be in trouble._

Joan was used to be underestimated. She frequently used her smaller frame and lighter weight as cornerstones of her strategy. She was faster, and more flexible in her moves than most trained fighters. She had also an intimate knowledge of pressure points of a human body, and used it shamelessly to disarm and subdue.

At some point, Sherlock seemed to adapt a little to her style, and managed to counter more hits than in the beginning. He twisted and jumped, and overall tried to exhaust his opponent. Where he drew his stamina from was an eternal mystery. A direct punch brushed her temple in a near-hit, and she reacted on instinct, diving, turning and kicking hard.

Sherlock leaped back to avoid her foot, and glared. "It's against the rules."

"Oh, now you think of rules?" she hissed, thinking of all the times they argued about slimy experiments in the fridge. And in mugs.

"Just because your simple little mind can't comprehend it…" he started, but was cut short by a mean left hook that was mostly avoided, but clipped his arm nevertheless.

"And your oh-so-brilliant mind can't comprehend the simple concept of biological hazard!" she growled, twisting and blocking the counter-attack. They weren't doing a conventional match anymore, it became more of a free fight with a vicious verbal exchange as a bonus.

"Such big words, John! For someone who needs a list for groceries, you're making progress!" Kick. Block.

"I haven't seen **you** doing the shopping, you lazy ass!" Turn. Punch.

"I have more important things to do!" Twist. Jump.

"Oh, yeah, like what, Mr I-will-starve-to-death-if-left-alone?!" Grab. Punch.

"I certainly won't! I don't need a babysitter!" Kick. Block. Jump.

"Yes, you do, you bloody inept git!" Block. Block. Punch.

"Not a simple-minded, useless pest like you!" Twist. Breathe.

 _Sand on her teeth, sun on her skin, liquid iron on her hands._ Blood thumped in her ears like thunder. _Kill._

The following seconds blurred into a flash of red and blue in her memory. She came to herself staring coldly at the winded Sherlock, who laid wide-eyed on the wilted grass, her fist mere millimeters away from his nose.

Someone gasped in the sidelines, and suddenly she was very aware of the crowd gathered to watch them fight, probably thinking they were some kind of performers.

Stiffly, Joan got up, tugging to remove the mittens and pointedly not looking at her vanquished flatmate.

"John…" he whispered, _sounding so afraid_. She didn't care. Ripping the half-mittens off with her teeth, she marched away.

 **# #**

The plan was progressing nicely. They were engaged in a fight, and Joan looked angry enough to not pull punches. As expected, her fighting style wasn't conventional, but suited her to a tee. He wasn't used to such rapid and calculating opponents, but it wouldn't have been a challenge otherwise. He didn't however expect to have so many close brushes.

 _Recalibration ongoing. Opening detected. Engage._

She managed to avoid the hit. The retribution however was an unpleasant surprise. _Counter detected. Retreat._

He jumped backwards, feeling her feet skim on his stomach. "It's against the rules" he protested half-heartedly - he wasn't one to fight by the rules either.

"Oh, now you think of rules?"

 _Opponent's anger level lowering. Need to maintain and increase. Protocol 14.2 reengaging._ "Just because your simple little mind can't comprehend it…" _DANGER. Retreat._

"And your genius mind can't comprehend the simple concept of biological hazard!" _Continue to engage._

"Such big words, John! For someone who needs a list for groceries, you're making progress!"

"I haven't seen **you** doing the shopping, you lazy ass!" _Anger_ _levels still insufficient. Continue to engage._

"I have more important things to do!"

"Oh, yeah, like what, Mr I-will-starve-to-death-if-left-alone?!" _Touché. Defense protocol 2.1 engaged._

"I certainly won't! I don't need a babysitter!"

"Yes, you do, you bloody inept git!" C _ounter-kill engaged._

"Not a simple-minded, useless pest like you!" _DANGER. Disengage. Retreat. Retreat…_

Joan's features hardened, and her stance, which was all solid edges and energy crackles, suddenly became a sharp icy scalpel. Sherlock didn't even have time to react to the storm that pounded onto him, precise and painful hits raining mercilessly. A hard kick to his stomach cut his breathing, and he fell on his back, gasping for air. The soldier was onto him instantly, and he had two seconds to ready himself for the punch that would have broken his nose, when it stopped as suddenly as it started. Blue eyes focused on him with a coldness that was much scarier than the smoldering anger he had grown used to.

Then she looked away, and Sherlock found himself wishing for the cold glare. "John…" he called from his pitiful sprawl on the ground. She didn't even look at him and walked away.

He rolled to get to his feet, still panting heavily. _John._ "John?" She was already marching away in the distance. Staggering, he trailed after her.

 **# #**

 _Useless pest._

 _Well, f uck you, Holmes._

It took a lot to drive her into killing mode, but the bloody idiot just did it. She stood on the street for a few seconds, before coming to a decision. Giving a sharp nod to herself, she turned and rapidly walked away, in the opposite direction from Baker Street.

After making sure that Sherl… the annoying f ucker wasn't following her ( _that kick to the stomach was overkill, he could have ruptured something… Have to make sure he gets checked in the hosp… No, no, NO, Watson! Don't care, remember?_ ), she stepped into a Starbucks, and got a coffee. Something scalding was exactly what she needed. While waiting for the paper cup, she fished out her phone and dialed someone who would understand.

"Hey" a pleasant female voice answered after three rings.

"Hi Mary" she sighed.

"Something wrong?" the woman had always been perceptive.

"Yeah, well… can I crush at yours tonight?" _That was awkward_.

"Sure" Mary replied after a short pause. "I'm heating up the pizza, come along."

The petite blonde opened her door with a smile. "Just on time, Jay." Looking her over, Mary cringed at the sweaty clothes and pushed her towards the bathroom. "First, a shower for you." Joan didn't protest.

They fell into an easy routine, bantering over pizza and sipping beer on the couch while watching crap telly. Mary was an old acquaintance (you meet all kind of people during deployments), who became a friend a couple of years ago. Joan had been on leave and very surprised to meet the supposedly dead woman in London. She also helped Mary get a job at Sarah's clinic recently, and without a rowdy detective to steal her time, Mary became a permanent nurse there while Joan remained a temporary feature.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Joan sighed. She really didn't want to. "I might be looking for a new flat." _Sherlock had provoked her. She had attacked to kill._ The decision to get away was mostly anger and hurt at his harsh words, but also shame at having lost control.

Mary hid her surprise well. "What happened?"

"We had a fight." Joan didn't look at her friend, preferring to talk to her beer.

"Don't you every day?"

"A real one." She sighed again, looking at the empty bottle mournfully. "He called me a useless pest. I punched him into next week."

A small hand patted her leg. "Jay… He's wrong."

A shudder ran down her spine. "It still hurts." _Useless. As in Kandahar, with a bullet hole in her shoulder, hearing her comrades shout, cry, and rasp their last breaths, through a fog of white-hot pain. As after an aerial raid, with patients being rushed in, and not enough nurses or surgeons to keep them alive, to keep them from bleeding out. As after opening her eyes to see a young man, a kid really, fall with a bullet in his brain, and feel nothing but unforgiving iron biting her wrists. Useless._

"You're a hero, John" Mary said calmly, maintaining physical contact, grounding her in London. "I've witnessed it. And if Holmes is dumb enough to not see how awesome you are, well, bully for him. You have comrades who would gladly take you in."

A grateful smile tugged at her lips. "Thanks."

"Here when you need me, girl." They lapsed into comfortable silence, munching on the lukewarm pizza. "So, would you like to move in here?"

Joan actually gave it a thought. There were reasons she didn't go look for help after her discharge. She liked to stay independent, even when it failed miserably in the beginning ( _let's forget about that bedsit_ ). Sherlock had been a breath of fresh air in her marshland of independent greyness. But she could manage without him. Without experiments, sleepless nights, psychotic criminals and cold, crushing comments. _I'm useless to him._ The thought had stung. _Just another notch on your heart, Watson._

"Yeah, I think I do" she finally answered. *****

 **# #**

Sherlock got home to an empty flat. Unsure whether he should feel relieved ( _no more conflict_ ) or terrified ( _where is John?_ ), he slid down the wall in an undignified heap.

 _Fact:_ _John had intentionally hurt me. She was literally about to kill me._

 _Fact:_ _she stopped._

 _Assumption 1a :_ _she wasn't that angry. Likelihood: 3%._

 _Assumption 1b :_ _she refrained from doing permanent damage by ingrained professional ethics. Likelihood: 97%._

 _Fact:_ _John reacted strongly to my words._ _Archive retrieval :_ _"_ …simple-minded, useless pest like you! _"_

 _Fact:_ _it was not the first time I disregarded John's intelligence. This had never garnered that reaction._

"I don't get it…" he grumbled to the ceiling. _Certainly, John knows that I value her input?_ He tried to remember an instance where he had expressed that feeling. He came up blank.

" _Idiot"_ Joan's voice rang in his mind.

Last time he tried to push her away willingly, she saw through him. He had said worse things that time at the hospital. What was different now?

 _Assumption 2a :_ _we were too caught up in the fight, and our sensitivities were heightened by the adrenaline._

 _INCORRECT: if it had been a mere emotional outburst, John would have apologized by now._

 _Assumption 2b :_ _John believed I had voiced my real opinions._

But it didn't make sense.

Mrs Hudson found him like this, sweaty, cold and confused, curled on the floor, two hours later. "Oh Sherlock, what's wrong?" she fretted.

"Mrs Hudson… I don't know what I did wrong" he confided softly.

She tugged at his elbow, to make him get up. "Go get a hot shower, dear. Then you'll tell me everything around a nice cuppa." Sherlock diligently complied for once.

"You had a big fight?" Martha asked when a clean and warmed Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. He blinked at her in surprise, accepting the mug she put in his hands. "You have a black eye, dear." Holmes gingerly felt the soreness around his left eye, admitting defeat. "Tell me."

And tell he did. Even the bad things they said to each other. The landlady sat across the cluttered kitchen table, and frowned more and more as the story went. When he grudgingly shared the _"_ useless pest _"_ part, she gasped, apparently scandalized. "Oh, Sherlock!"

"What?" he spat defensively.

"How could you say that?" she cried out.

"We were fighting! I didn't mean it!"

It looked like Mrs Hudson was silently counting to ten, then she glared at him sternly: "You know exactly what you did, young man. You aimed to hurt, and now you face the consequences."

"But I don't understand!" he whined, trying to avoid the glare behind his mug.

"You told John that she was a burden! If she hadn't already made a number on you, you would make acquaintance with my frying pan, Sherlock Holmes."

 _Fact:_ _John had trusted me._ _Fact:_ _John had always put away everything she was doing or had planned to assist me._ _Fact:_ _John blames herself for events out of her control, including not helping other soldiers when she was injured, or not keeping me from harm when I_ _willingly_ _ran into it._

 _Fact:_ _I told John that she was useless, carelessly playing on this insecurity._

 _Fact : __John hadn't come back to the flat._

 _Conclusion:_ _John wasn't coming back._

"What have I done?" Sherlock whispered, hands clutching at his curls. The elderly lady came to his side and patted his still dump hair. "What do I do now?"

"You messed up. And you are going to fix it."

"How?" he looked up, every bit a lost child.

"You are going to apologize."

 **# #**

Joan woke up with a clear mind. Her muscles felt sore, but it was to be expected. She ate her breakfast with Mary, then left to collect her stuff from 221b and to warn Mrs Hudson that she must start looking for a new tenant. She was going to have some free time again in her life.

She half-expected to find a black car waiting for her, but surprisingly Mycroft Holmes made no attempts at stopping her. _Weird. He's always creepily aware of everything I do._

The 221 building was silent. She pondered the merits of speaking to Mrs H first, but decided against it. Having her stuff waiting in the hall would make it easier to avoid being persuaded to stay. Crossing her fingers for Holmes being out, she tried to make no noise on the stairs. She was going to go directly to her room, but a whiff of detergent caught her attention on the landing. She dared a look inside the flat and froze.

It was clean. _Oh god, he cleaned again. I wonder what horror did he stash around this time?_ Catching herself smiling, Joan frowned instead. _Nope, nope, nope, good pranks don't make him a better person._ A glance to the kitchen revealed it in a pristine state too. And the fridge was clean of all experiments… there were even containers with her favorite dishes stored in there. _Huh, not the usual mold then._ _No, Watson, this is still not an excuse._

Shaking her head, the doctor crept upstairs to her room, determination still unwavering. Until she stumbled upon a surreal scene.

In the middle of her room was a box, full of what she recognized as her books usually kept on shelves downstairs and some other trinkets. Slumped uncomfortably against her bed, drooling on her afghan, was one Sherlock Holmes with an empty bottle of wine in one hand and his phone in another.

Joan blinked. Then pinched herself. The hallucination didn't go away.

 _What the…_

Sherlock let out a loud snore that made her jump.

 _Alright, Watson. You are not freaking out now._

She came closer, noting the pasty skin and the yellowing black eye, and actual tear tracks on his cheeks. _He'll have a killer headache._ Eyes falling on his phone, she suddenly remembered that her own phone went dead last night, not that she had cared at that moment. Moving as silently as possible, she got out and down to the living room. The phone was immediately plugged in, and powered up.

A long string of messages came in, making her wince. All were from Sherlock. Looking at the twenty-four frigging texts in apprehension, Joan glanced helplessly around the flat. _Even a visit from Mycroft would be welcome right now._

The texts didn't go away. _I could delete them all. Grab my bag and get out._

 _It'd be easy, I'll be free._

 _I am so regretting this later…_ she thought, opening the text conversation.

" **Dear** **John, I believe I should apologize for my recent behavior. Please come home, and I will do it in person. - SH** "

" **Dear** **John, I am truly sorry. I didn't mean it. - SH** "

" **Dear John, I understand that you are angry with me. It was a horrible thing to say, and I hurt your feelings, and I would understand if you never talk to me again, but can you just let me apologize properly? - SH**

" **John, please. - SH** "

" **I cleaned the flat. Mrs Hudson helped, but it still counts, right? - SH** "

" **I cleaned the fridge. No experiments this time, promise. - SH** "

" **John. Come back. Please. - SH** "

" **I'm sorry. - SH** "

" **Mrs Hudson told me to get you a diner. I got take-aways from Angelo, he really outdid himself. Please come back. I'm sorry. - SH** "

" **John.** "

" **I didn't mean it** "

" **You are not a useless pest. Nor simple-minded.** "

" **You said that I'm an idiot. So please forgive me.** "

" **Are** **you** **leaving for good?** "

" **Youre never comin back, right** "

" **u hate me.** "

" **i Am sor ry** "

" **jOhn** "

" **sorry** "

" **if ou leav, im getting yor things ready, so u wont nd hate me more** "

" **i thInK im dru,nk** "

" **im so sorry john i need you to stop th wine** "

" **jooooooooöohn** "

" **im so so so sorry please plz john plz sor ry ry sory** "

Joan stared at the written evidence of her flatmate's guilt-trip. _Oh my god…_ Her resolve to leave and never look back shattered irrevocably at the " **u hate me** ". _Damn that idiot._ Sighing, she went to grab an aspirin and a glass of water. Something told her that a hung-over Sherlock was worse than a bored one.

Her phone beeped again, and she glanced at it warily. But it wasn't another of Sherlock's drunken texts. Nooo, it was an email from his older brother. With a video attached.

 **# #**

Sherlock hadn't been idle after Mrs Hudson left him sulking. He thought of what would make his apology more credible. Doing it in person would be good. To this regard, he sent a text. Then he thought of all these times when Joan complained about the state of the flat and the kitchen. So, he did everything to make them clean again. Most of the chaos ended up stuffed in his bedroom, but he wasn't using it that much anyway. Martha checked up on him when he was sending the eighth text, and suggested he prepared her something to eat for a change. His mind helpfully supplied the list of foods that John seemed to appreciate more than the rest. He rushed to Angelo, and came back an hour later with a bag of take-aways, two bottles of red wine and a long list of tips on how to woo a woman that he promptly deleted.

Joan was still not there. And she was not answering her messages. Or the calls.

Staring at his phone, as if the device had personally offended him, Sherlock uncorked the wine and took a sip at the bottle. It was surprisingly good, and somehow abated his itch for stronger substances that resurfaced at times of high stress. It also had a quick effect, since he survived solely on tea since last Monday, three days ago, despite Watson's best efforts to feed him.

Progressively losing his sharp focus and the hope of seeing Joan ever again, he thought of at least texting her his thoughts.

She stayed silent.

The wine was good.

 _Fact:_ _John isn't answering._ _Conclusion:_ _John is gone._

 _Fact:_ _her things are still here._ _Conclusion:_ _she will to come to get them._

 _Fact:_ _John hates me._ _Assumption:_ _she won't want to see me._ _Conclusion:_ _I won't impose on her, so she won't hate me more._

Finding that his legs became a little difficult to move, Sherlock rummaged in his room to find a suitable box. Passing by the kitchen to finish the first bottle and grab the second one, he stumbled into the living-room. There were medical journals on the shelf. _John will want them_.

He somehow managed to gather all the books, his clouded brain identifying which books belonged to Joan with an unexpected level of accuracy, and to drag the box upstairs with the wine bottle tucked under one arm. He had sent some more texts between two steps.

Feeling utterly miserable, Sherlock sat on the floor, banging his head against the bed, _drowning in John's scent._ "Jooooohn…" he whimpered to the empty room. Random facts flashed through his mind.

 _i) John has nightmares, but she sleeps well when I play Bach._ He started to hum the familiar melody, hoping to soothe his absent friend.

 _ii) John makes good tea._ Sherlock took another gulp of wine, but it tasted nothing like John's tea.

 _iii) She had saved my life after knowing me for barely a day._

 _iv) John missed the army. They were fools to let her go. I am a fool too._

 _v) She had saved my life at the pool._

 _vi) John hates skirts and dresses, but wants to grow her hair longer. It suits her. I won't tell her though._ The speed of hair growth was one of his running experiments, and he had added some untested substances to Joan's shampoo without her knowing.

 _vii) She refused to be pushed away even when I tried real hard. And I am now a little scared of her punches._ "You're too cool, John" he giggled, eyes closed.

 _viii) John is my friend._

 _ix) I had badly hurt my friend._

There was no more wine in the bottle. Instead, salty tears ran unbidden on his face. He banged head against the bed again. The room spun. He vaguely remembered typing something before passing out on the floor.

 **# #**

He awoke to a blinding headache and a dull pain in his neck and lower back. Staring blankly at the ceiling, he absently catalogued the cracks in it. They hadn't been there before. _Or maybe I hadn't been_ _ **here**_ _before…_ Sherlock frowned, trying to remember his current location. It wasn't his room. Or the living-room. Or Mycroft's place. He hadn't any restraints, so it was safe to assume he hadn't been kidnapped.

The previous night was a painful blur. _Strange._

He tried to rewind his memory further, and gasped, events from the park coming into sharp focus. Sherlock lurched forward, intent on getting up and running to find his blogger, but his body had other ideas. His vision swam. A plastic bucket miraculously appeared in his lap, and he dry-heaved into it, mostly stomach acid tainted with red ( _wine?..._ _Evidence:_ _bottle of Côtes du Rhône. Hypothesis confirmed._ ).

Panting heavily, still staring at the bottom of the bucket, Sherlock suddenly became aware of someone's breathing above him. "Mrs Hudson?" he inquired weakly. The stranger huffed. _Too young._ "Mycroft?" he tried again, his brain still muddy and unable to correctly process the information. He almost expected to hear the insufferably pained voice of his brother asking "Have you made a list?"

"Third time is a charm" replied another familiar voice instead. Sherlock's head shot up fast enough to make his neck crack, and he was immediately forced to close his eyes and slump against the bed, fighting the combined onslaught of nausea, headache and dizziness. "Stay put, you idiot."

"John…" he mumbled, cracking open an eyelid. Joan was there indeed, staring down at him with an unreadable expression.

"Here" she handed him a glass of water and what he assumed was some medication to mitigate violent hangovers. _Cataloguing symptoms for later analysis._

"John" he repeated, not certain whether he could handle longer words at the moment.

"Yeah." He gulped down the aspirin and water, feeling marginally better. _Psychosomatic effect. The medicine didn't have time to work yet. Cataloguing stimuli for later analysis._ His eyes roamed the room, unable to stay on his flatmate, for fear to see the cold finality of a farewell. "I see you have gathered my stuff?" she commented off-handedly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped back at her, panicked. "I…" There was indeed a box full of Joan's books and trinkets from downstairs. He vaguely recalled that there was a reasoning behind this. _Must have been._ But he found himself unable to explain it. _It is the right moment to apologize_ , supplied Mrs Hudson's voice in his head. The words, however, didn't come to him. _John is going to leave forever_.

 **# #**

Joan observed Sherlock's awakening with mixed feelings of amusement, worry and vindictiveness. Worry was wining, as the man owlishly blinked at the ceiling, unaware of his surroundings. Sherlock Holmes was always aware of everything. At least, she managed to prevent the mess by pushing a helpful bucket into his lap when the idiot suddenly jumped up.

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock asked from the bucket, gasping for air. She quirked an eyebrow, but remained silent. His shoulders tensed. "Mycroft?"

 _Oh, come on…_ "Third time is a charm." She probably shouldn't have talked, as the man almost fainted trying to get a look at her. "Stay put, you idiot" she admonished, mildly concerned. Hangovers always looked worse than they were.

"John…" He sounded both awed and scared.

"Here" she handed him the aspirin and the water, skeptically eyeing the paleness and the sweat forming on his brow.

"John" came the unhelpful response.

"Yeah." She waited for her patient to swallow the pill and finish the water, before attempting to communicate again. "I see you have gathered my stuff?" _Wrong thing to say, apparently._ Sherlock suddenly looked like a dear caught in headlights, eyes glued to her face, starting to hyperventilate. Joan frowned. Sherlock seemed to sink further down to the floor. _Damn hangovers and idiot flatmates…_ "Alright, we're not having this conversation while you're in that state" she decided, and moved to grab his arm.

Somehow, she managed to pull the limp detective onto her bed. He wasn't resisting, just staring at her unwaveringly. Shifting his impossibly long legs on the bed, Joan absently checked his vitals. "Sleep it off for now. I'll make you something to eat when you can hold it down."

"And then?" His voice was a little shaky, and Joan frowned again. _He probably didn't eat anything with that all that alcohol._

"Then we'll talk." She fished out a bottle of water she kept under the bed. "Here, you need to hydrate yourself." The man obediently took the bottle, and looked up at her with wide eyes, prompting a small smile out of the doctor. "Good boy" she chuckled, patting his hair.

 **# #**

 _Unexpected stimuli detected. Imminent overload. Reboot required._

"Sherlock?"

 _Shut down in five… four…_

"You're blinking way too much."

… _three…two…_

"Sherlock…"

 _One._ _ **Sleep**_ _._

 **# #**

In hindsight, Sherlock's reaction was rather funny. The moment her hand touched his unruly hair, he tensed and started blinking rapidly, his face going alarmingly blank. "Sherlock…" and then he slacked on the bed with a soft snore.

 _Ah._

Joan just watched him for a moment, but it appeared to be normal rem sleep. Grumbling to herself about odd metabolisms, she went back to the kitchen.

It was late afternoon when she finished preparing a chicken soup and heard hesitant steps descend the stairs. Sherlock appeared in the doorframe, disheveled, barefoot and nervously scrunching an empty water bottle in his hands. Joan gave him a passing glance and pushed a steaming bowl on the recently cleaned table. The detective eyed it as if it had sprouted fangs and threatened to attack him. "Eat" Joan said evenly, while stirring milk into her tea.

Sherlock gingerly sat at the table and took up the spoon. After more hesitation, he finally started eating. Sighing over reluctant patients, Joan grabbed the other chair.

"How do you feel?" she asked when the man had finished his bowl.

"Better" he replied, gazing upon her with eyes full of questions and a timid hope.

"Please don't do that again." He frowned in confusion. "Get yourself drunk beyond reason" Watson clarified.

"I won't?" The reply was tentative and Joan could almost imagine the unsaid " _if you forgive me_ " hanging between them. She didn't quite know how to act on it. "John…" Sherlock started after minutes of awkward silence.

"I said bad things too" she interrupted. It shouldn't be so difficult to say. "I'm sorry too. And you're forgiven. Let's just avoid sparring in the future, ok?" She gave him a small reassuring smile. Her head was still pounding from the emotional rollercoaster of the last two days, but she really couldn't hold a grudge against those eyes.

Sherlock's expression went from confusion to crushing guilt to bewilderment to ecstatic glee while she was speaking. "Agreed" he said, looking revived, a huge grin plastered on his face.

 **# #**

Three days later, Sherlock hacked into Joan's computer _again_ , simply because it was getting harder to accomplish each time he got caught. He hadn't expected to find a new folder in the middle of the desktop named "Your punishment for hacking me again." Feeling rather curious and a little apprehensive, he opened it. There was one video in it with a telling title of "Curiosity killed the cat, Sherlock."

Deeming himself better than the proverbial feline, he clicked on it.

It was a security camera feed from their flat. _Mycroft._ The screen was split into six parts, showing respectively stairs, kitchen, both bedrooms and the living room from two different angles. _Note to self_ _: find and destroy the bugs._ He watched as himself from a yet undetermined point in time came into the kitchen with shopping bags. _The night after the fighting incident then_. The apprehension grew, and Sherlock repressed the need to fidget. Or slam the computer shut. His counterpart unloaded dishes into the fridge, and sat at the kitchen table, sipping wine directly from the bottle. The video sped up, and he saw himself stumble around with a box, meandering to Joan's bedroom, and crushing on the floor, all the while slowly consuming the wine. The last couple of minutes showed him gesturing wildly, typing something on the phone and falling asleep. Luckily, the quality of the recording was bad enough that his face wasn't clearly visible. He was relatively certain to have cried that night.

Sherlock continued staring at the screen after the video ended, an embarrassed flush starting to slowly rise on his cheeks. He carefully turned off the laptop, and pushed it as far away as possible, in case it decided to pop up more incriminating videos. _Note to self_ _: stop hacking into John's laptop._ His phone beeped with an incoming text: " **She warned you. MH** "

 _That's it._ "MYCROFT!" he roared, and rushed out of the flat, a plan for vengeance already forming in his mind. _First, let's get some chocolate and scones…_

Joan jumped out of the kitchen, ready to fight, only to see her flatmate run out with murderous expression on his face. She was about to call Mycroft, but noticed in time that her laptop changed places. Smirking rather impishly, she shook her head, nodded at the hidden camera and went back to the interrupted tea-making process.

 **# #**

 **A/N:** The fight and the reconciliation bits were inspired by "Hard Knocks" (laureleaf). Drunken Sherlock was my idea of fun, though :)

Rightie-o, hope you enjoy a good summer holiday! Irene is finally making an appearance next time, I promise.


	35. Chapter 35 - aSiB - Irene

Not dead! So so sorry. I love you all.

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

 **Warning:** Language.

 **# #**

The rest of the summer had come and gone with few new developments. Joan's blog gained more and more readers, and clients poured in. Sherlock's bouts of boredom became few and far in between – when there wasn't a case, there was always something in a previous crime that prompted new experiments (much to Mrs Hudson's chagrin). Joan had to visit her physician until July because of the damage done to the left shoulder, but it didn't stop her from tagging along on cases, typing out new blog posts and bickering with Sherlock on regular basis about case titles. It seemed to really annoy the man, and Joan tended to invent more ridiculous titles just because it was hilarious to see him cringe.

"Do people actually read your blog?" he asked once, trying to disguise his bemusement under an indifferent mask.

Her reply of "Where d'you think our clients come from?" put him in a foul mood for a day, until they managed to figure out what exactly killed the victim ( _red pepper_ ).

At some point, the press started following them around, to the growing irritation of Sherlock (Joan suspected that it was all a sham and the consultant covertly liked the attention) and to the great delight of the NSY, especially Lestrade who seemed to enjoy the situation far too much. One night, Joan managed to join the DI at the pub after her shift in the clinic.

"Doesn't it bother you?" she asked after the first beer and small talk about rugby.

"What?"

"The media circus around your cases when Sherlock gets involved" the blogger elaborated, absently rubbing her neck.

Greg smirked in response. "I have no trouble getting approval for his involvement, now that he has good press." Joan blinked in realization that every time Holmes consulted for Scotland Yard, tons of additional paperwork would befall the DI. _He really believes in Sherlock to deal with all the bureaucracy behind the scenes…_ "And doesn't it bother **you**?" he suddenly asked, with a mischievous wink that didn't befit his appearance at all.

The doctor stared at him in surprise. "What, people recognizing Sherlock?"

"The media speculating about you both."

She remembered several smaller newsfeeds spouting nonsense about their relationship and shrugged. "Nah, not really. It's rather funny, in hindsight."

Lestrade gave her a knowing look. "You realize there are betting pools going."

"And you're trying to get some insider information, aren't you, inspector?" Joan laughed good-heartedly. "I'm not dating Sherlock, if that's what you're asking, Greg."

He didn't lose his shit-eating grin. "You don't?"

"Definitely not. But I'm open to misleading the public and launching crazy rumors." It was her turn to wink now. "Since no one seems interested in the truth, why can't I have fun with everyone else? It's nothing major, no harm done."

Lestrade sipped his beer with a thoughtful look on his face. "I don't know, wouldn't it scare people off?"

"Didn't scare you, did it?" she shrugged.

"I work homicides" the DI retorted immediately.

"And I don't go around showing pictures of our fridge either" Joan continued. It made Greg chuckle.

After a minute of comfortable silence, the smirk was back in full force and the grey-haired man leaned forward on the table. "So, if not Sherlock, is there a special someone for you right now, doctor?"

Joan raised both eyebrows. There had never been a romantic tension between her and Greg, just friendly banter between adults with a similar sense of humor. _He is head over heels for his wife. So,_ _ **this**_ _is not flirting._ "You are fishing for info to place the best bet, right?" The DI grinned shamelessly without denying. "How unexpectedly ruthless of you." The light tone of her voice and the salute with her beer clearly indicated that she didn't mind in the slightest. "I've had my share of special someones over the years. The game lost its interest for now."

"Do I smell scandal here, Watson?"

"I never took you for a gossip girl, Lestrade." They laughed, and the conversation steered towards commiserating about Sherlock's experiments.

When she got back home around nine-ish, she was met with a sharp glare from the couch. Too tired to deal with the usual nonsense, Joan rolled her eyes, hanged her coat by the door and plopped down on her chair.

"What did you tell Lestrade?" Sherlock asked out of the blue, sitting up abruptly.

The doctor attempted to quirk an eyebrow at him in surprise. "That I prefer dark beer. Be more specific, please."

The man huffed in irritation. "He just placed a large bet on us being 'just friends' and 'both single', after having spent two hours in a pub with you. Explain."

"How would you know that?!"

"I logged in the google drive the Yard uses to record their betting pools" he explained off-handedly, before leaning forward, staring intensely at her. "Explain."

Joan sighed. _Of course, he hacked their records. Why didn't anyone notice?_ "He asked if we were a couple. I said no." The glaring continued. "Why do you care anyway?"

"Having my assistant engage in a romantic commitment with my primary client would certainly prove detrimental and distracting for the usual dealings with the police force, which are already tedious as is."

 _Huh? Just… what?_ It took her at least half-a-minute to realize what Sherlock was implying, and she just couldn't stop the hysterical laughter. Holmes kept on glowering from the sofa. "Sorry" Joan managed to gasp between bouts of giggles. "Just… even imagining it… just too funny."

"Is it?" came the sulky comment.

Wiping the laughter tears away, she stated firmly: "I'm not interested in Lestrade. Or anyone at the Yard, for that matter. And vice versa. No one is going to spoil your Work with romantic mush."

It seemed to reassure the detective, since he laid back on the couch without a word, steepling his fingers under his chin. "Please inform me if the situation changes."

Joan snorted in mirth, but nodded faithfully. "I promise."

 _ **# #**_

One morning, they had been huddled on opposite ends of the sofa, each engrossed in their own phones. Joan wasn't sure what Sherlock was browsing exactly, but she was fending off Harry and her make-over offers. The quiet time was interrupted by a loud thud and Mrs Hudson calling from the kitchen: "You've got another one!" They exchanged a worried glance and rushed there, just to find a man passed out on the floor.

Once Joan managed to get the client back to consciousness, Sherlock bullied the full story out of him, seemed lost in thought for a minute, then turned to the doctor. "John, I need you to go on the scene."

"Aren't you coming?" she asked while getting her coat.

"No need. You can be my eyes."

She stopped in her tracks, eyeing the detective with suspicion. "That's new."

"Hmm? Why are you still here?"

"Why aren't you coming?"

"Told you, not necessary. Skype me when you're there." Still suspicious ( _he's being a lazy arse, I just know it_ ), Joan attempted to hail down a cab for a good five minutes. _Why does my flatmate have the cab-summoning superpower, and why can't I borrow it? The world is unfair._

 _ **# #**_

The world continued to remain unfair as she walked behind her escort through the palace, trying not to think about muddy shoes and expensive carpets. The alleged butler in a suit that must cost about three times her yearly income stopped in front of an open room and gestured for the doctor to come inside, before disappearing in an adjacent corridor. The room looked a lot like the rest of the palace… tasteful, expensive and somehow still comfortable. Joan didn't take too much time to examine the royal design though, because on the sofa in the middle of the room, there was Sherlock, wrapped in a bed sheet, looking at her with an expression of polite boredom.

 _Did he…?_ Seeing no information forthcoming from the flatmate, she slowly came inside and sat near him. Another glance at the sheet-wearing man confirmed her suspicions. _He did._ "Are you wearing any pants?"

"No" the half-naked detective replied calmly.

"Okay" was all she found to say before their eyes met and they dissolved into helpless laughter. "At Buckingham palace, fine" Joan gasped through a hiccup. "Oh, I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray." This made Sherlock chuckle again. "What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?"

"I don't know" he shrugged slightly.

"Here to see the Queen?" _Sound suggestion based on the location._

It was the moment Mycroft Holmes chose to stride in, welcomed by his brother's snide comment: "Oh, apparently yes." And they were dying of laughter again, this time under Mycroft's glare.

"Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?"

It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Joan obliged nonetheless: "We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

"I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft" Sherlock chimed in, suddenly turning the 'serious' mode on. It lost some of the intensity considering the man was naked under a bed sheet at the moment.

Somehow, Mycroft managed to keep a straight face ( _I'll never play poker with him, that's for sure…_ Joan noted absently). "What, the hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent" Sherlock scoffed. _Wait, what? Then why… Agh. Nevermind. I can ask later,_ _ **this**_ _is just getting interesting._ Joan made a conscious effort not to grin and sat back to enjoy the usual Holmes brothers' showdown. It never failed to entertain.

"Time to move on, then." Mycroft picked up the pile of clothes that had been sitting on the coffee table for a while now and offered them to his brother, who glanced at them with affected disinterest. "We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on." _Do not laugh, do not laugh…_

"What for?" The answer was half-petulant, half-defiant.

"Your client."

"And my client is?" Sherlock stood up brusquely, somehow managing not to lose the sheet.

"Illustrious, in the extreme" said another tall man in an expensive suit that had just arrived in the room. Joan mentally sighed about being the shortest one again. _At least, I'm not under-dressed for once. Difficult to top an imitation of a nudist ghost._ "And remaining – I have to inform you – entirely anonymous." While the government officials exchanged greetings, the ex-soldier hoisted herself up, starting to get mildly uncomfortable among all the… posh. She was promptly distracted from the musings on the sofa's price by Harry-the-mysterious-equerry: "And this must be Doctor Joan Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Hello, yes." They shook hands. Sherlock's scowl intensified.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."

"Really?" _Wait, his employer?!_

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch" Harry smiled.

 _Well, it seems my blog has a far wider readership than expected._ She temporarily smothered the squealing fangirl part of her brain and grinned back: "Thank you!"

Harry's smile faded a little when he turned towards Sherlock. "And Mr Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs."

She could almost see thunderclouds gathering over Sherlock's head and cringed in anticipation. "I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend." _Good to know I do actually have an added value to him._ The prat pushed past her, as dignified as one could be in his current dress-state. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." A barely perceptible nod to the equerry. "Good morning."

The dignified march out of the room was promptly stopped by Mycroft stepping on the trailing end of the sheet. Only Joan's military training prevented her from face-palming at the sight Sherlock tugging at the cloth before it uncovered absolutely everything. His older brother seemed too angry to care. "This is a matter of national importance. Grow up."

"Get off my sheet!"

"Or what?" _Oh, don't provoke him either!_

"Or I'll just walk away." _Ok, this was amusing while it lasted…_

"I'll let you."

As Harry looked too bemused to react, Joan decided to intervene. "Boys, please." The older brother directed his Holmes-glare at her, which had long lost its effectiveness after months living with the younger one. "We all probably have better things to do. So why don't we all calm down, alright?" Both Holmeses sniffed indignantly at the suggestion. "Or at least discuss it as adults" Joan amended. "And Sherlock, I'm sure you don't care about giving heart attacks to the unfortunate people who'd cross your butt-naked path, but it is September in London, you'll catch your death like this. Please, put something on." She could see Mycroft swallow back a snappy comeback before he let the sheet go. Sherlock immediately pulled it back around him, then turned to snatch the clothes from the table and disappeared in the neighboring room.

He returned perfectly dressed just when a maid brought in the tea set, making it rather clear that he was doing Joan a personal favor by abandoning the bed sheet. _And I'm the shortest and the under-dressed one again. The world is unfair, dammit._

After a new round of snippy comments, they actually managed to get to the point. "Irene Adler, professionally known as The Woman."

Given the print-outs Mycroft handed over, Joan already had her suspicions, but she had to clarify: "Professionally?"

"There are many names for what she does" Mycroft obliged without missing a beat. "She prefers 'dominatrix.'"

 _How is this my life?_ Meanwhile, Sherlock appeared intrigued. "Dominatrix."

"Don't be alarmed" his brother offered a fake smile. "It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me."

"How would you know?" Joan had started to sip the tea but inhaled it instead, and started coughing uncontrollably, trying to glare at Mycroft at the same time. _That was so uncalled for._

The detective patted her back absently. "Do be careful, John." She waved a hand weakly, signifying that it was alright. The older Holmes ignored her completely and moved on with the explanations. It seemed to be a classic blackmail case, making one wonder why they needed Sherlock of all people to handle this. Joan was rather certain that the Secret Service wouldn't be phased by racy photos of royal descendants, or even tempted to land a scoop with some tabloid. They had probably seen worse.

"She doesn't want anything" Mycroft announced.

Joan winced. _And of course, they are all over-thinking it. Things never need to be too convoluted. But still, does it really require Sherlock's skills?_ Her musings were interrupted by a gleeful: "Oooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?" _At least someone's enjoying it…_

"Sherlock…" she admonished for Harry-the-bemused-equerry's sake.

"Hmm."

Harry chose that moment to be a sceptic, the clueless man. The doctor watched with sympathy as Sherlock dissected him with his eyes and promptly doubled down. "Can I have a box of matches?"

"I'm sorry?" _Yeah, you brought it upon yourself…_ Joan exchanged an understanding look with Mycroft, who had calmed down already and looked simply resigned to the whole debacle.

"Or your cigarette lighter. Either will do."

Harry still didn't know what hit him. "I don't smoke."

"No, I know you don't, but your employer does." _What… Another thing to ask about later, yay._

To Joan's mild surprise, the equerry actually handed over a lighter. "We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr Holmes."

There was definite smugness in Sherlock's voice now. "I'm not the Commonwealth."

She made to follow the retreating drama-queen. "And that's as modest as he gets. Pleasure to meet you." They left the room under Harry's completely confused gaze and Mycroft's disapproving one.

 _ **# #**_

She looked up from her book for the third time in five minutes. Sherlock had just reappeared in the living room, this time in a bright orange vest. The previous costume included a fake beard. The one before that – a tie and thick glasses. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to battle" the madman claimed. "I need the right armor."

"I'm sure Lestrade can lend you a bulletproof vest, if you ask nicely!" Joan called after him as he returned to wreaking havoc in his room.

"Don't be obtuse!" came the snappy reply, making the doctor chuckle a bit.

 _ **# #**_

"Punch me."

"Sorry, what?"

"Didn't you hear me?"

"Didn't you have enough last time?"

 _Subject is non-compliant. Implement protocol 13.01._ "Oh, for god's sake…" **Whack.** **Thud.** _Physical stimuli assessment. Satisfactory results confirmed._ "Agh… Thank you, that was…" **Whack.** _Unexpected stimuli. Assessment pending. Ow._

"You gotta remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier, I killed people!" _Fact:_ _John was in the army._ _Fact:_ _John was medical personnel._ _Contradictory statement detected._

"You were a doctor!"

"I had bad days!" _Updating file_ _John Watson_ _: Do not provoke,_ _ **ever**_ _._

 _ **# #**_

After having been sent out in the middle of nowhere to be a Skype relay, then picked up by helicopter to visit the Buckingham Palace, and finally getting into a punching match with her flatmate in an alley, Joan certainly didn't expect her day to get any weirder. She had been wrong. As was clearly indicated by the sight of a stark-naked Irene Adler almost sitting in Sherlock's lap.

Joan blinked. "What did I miss?" _That's way too much nakedness than I need in one day._

Irene looked slightly disappointed when she put some distance between herself and the consulting detective. Sherlock seemed to take a breath. "Please, sit down" The Woman gestured to the sofa, not bothering to cover herself. As far as provocation tactics went, this one was masterful. Joan carefully placed the bowl of water on the table. "Oh, if you'd like some tea, I can call the maid."

"I had some at the Palace" Sherlock blurted out. _Is he…_ Joan frowned at him. _Yeah, he is unnerved. I suppose naked women that are not murder victims are not what he's used to._

"I know." Irene's smile was positively predatory. _She's playing._

"Clearly." They all continued to stare at each other, with Sherlock glancing from Irene to her and back, visibly trying to figure out something (Irene was too busy undressing Sherlock with her eyes to pay attention to Joan). It didn't seem to work out well, because he scowled after half-a-minute.

Slightly stunned herself by the turn of events, Joan kept her mouth shut. Much as her flatmate, she didn't have much experience dealing with this type of person – the ones who use their physical appeal as their main weapon and get into too many power plays for their own good.

"D'you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait." The ex-soldier winced internally. _Oooh, lady, don't say that to the infiltration specialists… They're a bit touchy about their art._

"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?"

"No, I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself." Joan's temper flared up at that. _First Mycroft, then this… this… woman. What's this about people insulting Sherlock today? Even if he's a prat and clueless at times, this shit is not necessary._ Her glare was missed by the other two people in the room. "Oh, and somebody **loves** you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." Joan's increasingly angry thought process came to a screeching halt. _Wa… what… Oh, fuck this._

"Interesting conclusion." She forced out a pleasant smile. "Do you mind dressing up a bit now?"

Irene leaned forward with a smirk of her own, quickly checking out Joan's jumper-wearing frame. "Why? Are you feeling exposed?"

"I'm a surgeon. You've got nothing I literally haven't seen inside out already, Miss Adler." Joan kept up the smile while delivering the rebuke, making the other woman narrow her eyes slightly. "But for the sake of our renown British manners, please consider this napkin." She pointed to the cloth the maid gave her to 'clean the wounds'.

Sherlock chose this moment to suddenly stand up and shake off his coat, throwing it at Irene. Both women maintained eye contact for a bit longer than strictly necessary, Joan still smiling politely and Irene tilting her head to the side in silent assessment. _She thought I'd be shaken by her game too. Oh honey, that must be quite disappointing._ The naked brunette finally gave up on staring the doctor down into submission and begrudgingly pulled on the coat. "Well, never mind. We've got better things to talk about."

She skillfully steered the conversation towards neutral (as far as mysterious deaths go) grounds. Once Irene's curves were covered, Sherlock regained a bit of his composure, even if he sounded like a flustered teenager on a caffeine spree at first. Joan stood her ground near the door, having doubts whether the detective had really been played or was the plan still on, until… "So they **are** in this room. Thank you. John, man the door. Let no-one in."

 _ **# #**_

Burning magazines in a house was not the brightest thing she'd ever done. Struggling to put the fire out had promptly joined her 'never again' list too. "I said you can turn it off now!" shouted the cause of all here troubles behind the door.

"Hang on!" _Should have thought it through._ Joan's musings about the technical impossibility to switch the alarm off with her height were cut short by the arrival of three armed men. _The hell?!_

The leader stopped in front of her, backed by his goons. The doctor quirked an eyebrow at them. "I suppose you're not here for tea?"

"Very funny, Doctor Watson" the leader huffed. _Earpieces. Not your average goons. Organized. Funded._ "Please refrain from alerting your friend."

"Do you promise not to shoot him if I do?" was the first thing she found to say, still checking discretely for any form of identification.

"Only as a last resort" came the not-so-reassuring answer. _American accent._

"How generous of you." _Dammit, I knew we should have let Mycroft handle it on his own._

One of the subordinates stepped forward, gun pointed at her menacingly. "Now, hands behind your head, and lead on, Doctor Watson."

 _ **# #**_

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Screech.

"For God's sake!"

"Oh, shut up. It's quick."

The git sent her away to check the entry points of the house ( _I just know that somehow, he already knows how they broke in_ ). Joan felt uneasy leaving the clueless detective in the sole company of a woman who spanked people for a living, but he looked so smug about the whole debacle ( _a dead foreign agent, jeez_ ) that it grated on her frayed nerves. Actually, both of them grated on her nerves. _Just let them play._

As the good doctor progressed through the ground floor with no evident signs of breaking-and-entering, her brain started to catch up with the situation. _No way in hell Mycroft was not aware of the Americans' presence. He could have underestimated their drive to get that phone though, but then why would they need it in the first place._ Throwing the man in the middle of a turf war between international agencies was **not** a kind thing to do to his younger brother, anyway. She'd have to have words ( _or blows_ ) with Mycroft about it.

She went up the stairs, goosebumps settling under the jumper. _They were quite desperate to get the information too. The amount of paperwork to file for that one bullet in a fire alarm must be nightmare material, never mind if they had actually shot any of us._ Her thoughts were cut short when she stumbled upon the unconscious maid in the bedroom. "Sherlock!" After a quick check, Kate the maid appeared to be out of danger.

The room was entirely too cold for someone who strode around the house naked. Joan glanced at the windows, and only then noticed the door to the en-suite bathroom. Trying to ignore the prickle of jealousy at the sight of an enormous bathtub, she confirmed the possible entrance before a still-smug Sherlock and a still-naked-under-the-coat Irene rushed in. "Must have come this way" Joan nodded towards the open window from the bathroom doorway.

"Clearly" the git huffed and went to look at it himself.

Irene approached her maid's unmoving form with a hint of concern on her face. Remembering that everyone has feelings, Joan momentarily put aside her wariness and pulled out her bed-side manners: "It's all right. She's just out cold."

Adler gave her an impenetrable look. "Well, God knows she's used to that. There's a back door. Better check it, Doctor Watson."

"Suuure." She wasn't particularly happy about the situation, but went searching for the back door nevertheless. The house was eerily silent. Joan hoped that Met would get there quickly. Irene was one tricky lady, and the perspective of explaining dead / knocked out spies to irate policemen without the house's owner present was not a bright one. _Why am I doing this again?_ She chanced a glance into the boudoir, or whatever that room was called. The surviving Yanks were still groaning softly, cuffed to the heater. _If I don't kill Mycroft first, the US ambassador certainly will,_ Joan noted grimly.

A loud thud echoed from upstairs. Heart dropping, the doctor sprinted back, only to see Sherlock flailing weakly on the floor, while Irene retreated to the bathroom, riding crop in hand. "Jesus. What are you doing?"

The Woman appeared utterly unconcerned as she dropped over her shoulder: "He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse."

Joan's vision darkened with rage. _She drugged him, didn't she?_ Her focus zeroed on the empty syringe. _She bloody drugged him._ "What have you given him?" she growled, picking it up in a futile attempt to identify the substance. Sherlock's head smashed loudly against the floorboards as he tried to get up. "Sherlock!"

"He'll be fine" Irene drawled from the window sill, adjusting something around her waist. "I've used it on loads of my friends."

 _Who did not have a nasty drugs habit for years_ , the doctor wanted to point out, but Sherlock was trying to move again and she had to keep a hand under his head. She had to settle on a look of utter disgust that Irene brushed off like a fly. "You know, I was wrong about him. He **did** know where to look." Her voice was in equal parts proud, fascinated and giddy. And while Joan could understand the fascination (they were dealing with Sherlock kneel-before-me Holmes, after all), it didn't make her any less furious.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, more to keep Adler in the room while the blaring sirens approached than to hear her answer.

"The code to my safe" the brunette said with a smirk. Joan looked up briefly from checking Sherlock's pulse and pupil dilation. The 'are you kidding me?' glare had been lost on Irene, who eyed the detective like a piece of steak. "Shall I tell her?" The man continued to struggle under the doctor's firm hold. The Woman smiled ruthlessly, taunting Joan. "My measurements." And with that, she dropped out of the window.

"Bloody irresponsible, dangerous, show-off" Joan grumbled under her breath, still trying to placate her floundering flatmate. "I hope you dislocated a vertebra with your theatrics." Sherlock's wild gestures began to die down. "Sherlock, mate? Can you hear me?"

"Hmph."

"Alright. What did she give you?"

"'Stetic…" he mumbled. _Well, that was worth a try._

The sirens finally reached the building and loud footsteps approached the front door cautiously. Joan sighed heavily. _I have about three minutes to think of an excuse._ "Hmm." Her eyes fell on the detective who resumed his feeble attempts to get up. _Yep. Let's do that._ "Over here!" she yelled with as much fear infused in her voice as possible. "We need help!"

The footsteps stopped, then someone cursed before scurrying up the stairs and into the room. "John?" Lestrade gaped at the scene before him. It did look quite bad. An unconscious maid in a **very** short uniform, a drugged consulting detective and a harried ex-army doctor trying to hold the man in one piece. All that without counting one corpse and two beaten CIA agents downstairs.

"Hey" she nodded calmly. The scared victim act wouldn't have survived long with Greg anyway.

"What happened?" _Reasonable question._

"Would you believe me if I said that we got taken hostage by the idiots downstairs and that Sherlock got literally whipped by a professional dominatrix?"

Lestrade looked like someone slapped him with a fish. The pair of assault specialists in bulletproof vests that came to check around chuckled in the corridor, earning a half-hearted glare from the DI. "I must be crazy, but I would." He frowned. "What were you doing here in the first place?"

"Running an errand for the government" Joan shrugged helplessly. "Can you help me out? And call for an ambulance?" Together they managed to get Sherlock upright and maneuver him to the stairs.

He had been surprisingly docile, but the sight of a busy entry hall seemed to upset him. "The scene…! Not good. Shoes… hmph. Untied. Rings… many rings and collars… John, get the suit!" Watson exchanged a bemused look with Lestrade.

"Calm down" she tried softly. "It's alright, Sherlock."

"Ts. Not. White" the disgruntled man punctuated each word with a sharp nod, making his heavy curls fall onto his eyes. "Ist night?"

Greg smothered a laugh. Joan pinched him lightly in retaliation. "It's not funny. He's unwell."

"Oh, trust me, that's him on a good day" the DI stated. "Orson! Come here and help us." A tall dark-haired and expressionless man in a forensics suit joined them, and with his help, Sherlock had been brought downstairs and outside. Orson helped Joan to settle the mumbling detective on the back seat of an available car, while Lestrade whipped out his phone with a grin.

"Thanks" Watson huffed once Sherlock had been seated and secured. Orson nodded and left, not having said a word during the whole ordeal. "What are you doing?" she asked Lestrade.

"Nothing" he replied a bit too quickly, hiding the phone. "Are you taking him to a hospital?"

Joan had considered the idea, but there were other options. "Nah, we have adequate equipment at home. I'll draw a blood sample for the lab. That way Mycroft will have to show up."

The DI stared in surprise. "You actually want to deal with Big Brother tonight?"

"I actually want to punch Big Brother tonight."

"That, I can relate to." He looked over at the rapidly growing crowd behind the police tape and rubbed a hand over his three-days stubble. "Get in, I'll drive you both."

 _ **# #**_

Lestrade left after having taken another video of a mumbling Sherlock, and Joan's shoulders sagged. She had acted on pure adrenaline until then. With a heavy heart, she went to draw a vial of blood from her now snoring flatmate. Once finished, she cautiously tucked him in and closed the bedroom's door.

 _Time for a phone call._ Mycroft answered after two rings. She didn't wait for him to talk: "Send someone to collect the blood sample and run a full range of tests asap. Adler injected Sherlock with something, and we both want to know exactly what it is, don't we?"

There was a heavy silence on the other end, interrupted only by rustling paper. "Consider it done" Mycroft finally capitulated.

"Consider coming in person with the results" Joan ordered and hung up.

 _ **# #**_

Anthea came and went, and Joan tried to distract herself by reading a fantasy book. "John!" called a muffled voice. The book didn't hit the ground when she was already at his door.

Sherlock was awake and struggling to sit up on the floor. "You okay?"

"How did I get here?" the drowsy flatmate demanded to know.

"Well, I don't suppose you remember much" she said, observing the uncoordinated movements. "You weren't making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you: I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone."

"Where is she?" the mess of a consulting detective asked.

"Where's who?"

"The woman. That woman." _Oh, Irene made quite an impression._

Still, she felt the anger flare in her gut. Adler had done nothing but harm Sherlock so far and did not deserve his attention. "What woman?"

Holmes paced unsteadily in the room. " **The** woman. The **woman** woman!"

 _Idiot._ "What, Irene Adler? She got away. No-one saw her." He stumbled to the window. "She wasn't here, Sherlock." It didn't seem to deter him, as he rather clumsily dropped to the ground and almost crawled under the bed in search for a runaway escort-girl.

"What are you…?" _Enough is enough._ "No, no, no. Up you get." She somehow hauled the surprisingly heavy man high enough to push him on the bed. "Back to bed." Feeling a little like a deja-vu, Joan fumbled to shift his legs before tucking him under a blanket. "You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep."

Sherlock was already half-asleep and slurred petulantly: "Of course I'll be fine. I **am** fine. I'm absolutely fine."

"Yes, you're great. Now I'll be next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" the git muttered.

 _I'll let it slide this time._ "No reason at all" she sighed and exited the room on her toes.

 _ **# #**_

The quiet steps of leather shoes woke Joan up from her uncomfortable slumber in a chair around midnight. "What took so long?" she inquired casually. The steps froze for a second, then the light clicked on. Joan squinted at the ceiling light with distaste.

"The lab had to be thorough" Mycroft said holding out a white envelope and a brown paper file. Watson felt quite proud of herself, having made the older Holmes not only comply with her order and actually come to the flat, but also bring what she really needed to see, Sherlock's medical history. It seemed to pain him greatly.

"Thank you." She pulled out the results first and scanned the long list of tests. _They_ _ **were**_ _thorough._ Irene's mysterious drug was only a strong sedative laced with a muscle relaxant. No significant side-effects. Her sigh of relief prompted a condescending huff from the still-standing Mycroft. "Oh, sit down, why don't you? I have to read and remember all this, after all." The government official looked like he sucked on a lemon, but sat in Sherlock's chair nevertheless.

"I have other matters to attend" he said haughtily.

"You will make time for this" Joan cut sternly, already engrossed in the file.

"What makes you think your behavior is acceptable, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft drawled with an affected indifference.

That made the doctor briefly look up. _He knew about the interest Americans had in Adler. Chances are, there was a joint operation of some importance, but Holmes-almighty decided to strike on his own to gain political cookie points. It is a bloody mess, quite literally, and he knows it._ "Because you messed up. No one is infallible, I give you that. But when your schemes result in Sherlock being sedated, be grateful I didn't punch you in the face and sit tight." She finished reading the file in tense silence. _This… is unpleasant_ , she winced, dropping the last page on her lap. Her shocked gaze caught Mycroft's own pained one. "He OD'ed two times?" Saying the words made the fact tangible. Joan gritted her teeth in anger, unsure who was the cause of her ire at this point.

Mycroft leant forward in an uncharacteristic show of concern. "He had been clean for a year now. The last stint in rehab had more impact than the last four."

"Four…" she breathed out. "This was not just boredom, Mycroft."

His expression closed off. "This is none of your concern, Doctor Watson."

"I won't pry." She straightened up, trying to drive the point across. "I want to know what to watch out for. I want to be there when he needs me."

The man blinked, slowly. "It… can be arranged."

"Good." They sat in silence for a minute, studying each other with equally calculating eyes. _I believe he is surprised._ "Don't feel so bad" she offered a conciliatory smile. "I gotta have some brain cells to survive Sherlock."

Something akin to amusement tugged at Mycroft's lips. "Obviously."

Joan assembled the scattered pages into the original file and stood up. "I believe you have some more allies to placate tonight."

He rose to his feet with polished grace and took back the documents. "Indeed. Thank you for your cooperation, John."

She blinked at him. It was the first time the older Holmes had called her name without any hint of disdain. "Good night, Mycroft." With a parting nod, he sauntered towards the door and disappeared into the night.

Shaking her head in quiet disbelief, Joan went to check on Sherlock.

 _ **# #**_

Sherlock emerged from his room around eight, after Joan took a shower and drunk her first cup of coffee. About nine-thirty, Mycroft showed up again. How did he manage to look fresh and pristine after having spent the night covering an international spy scandal, Joan would never know. He greeted her with a brief nod and started nagging, quite convincingly, at Sherlock about the lost photographs. Distracted by the bickering, the younger brother did not pick up on the subplot.

"The photographs are perfectly safe."

"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker" Mycroft sounded incredulous. Joan took a bite of her eggs and enjoyed the show.

Sherlock shared his thoughts without filter. "She's not interested in blackmail. She wants ... protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"

The older brother glowered. "How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied."

"She'd applaud your choice of words." Joan smirked. _He jokes about it. Didn't take the defeat too hard then._ "You see how this works: that camera phone is her 'Get out of jail free' card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft."

"Though not the way she treats royalty" she couldn't help but quip. The dry humorless smile of the government official expressed utter world-weariness. The moment was interrupted by an orgasmic female sigh. Joan and Mycroft stared at each other, then at Sherlock, who swiftly got up to pick his phone. "What was that?"

"Text" the git replied as if nothing was wrong.

"With that noise?" _Oh my god. His phone was in his coat. Oh, fuck. Irene had been in our flat._

Meanwhile, Sherlock 'artfully' shifted the attention away from his suspicious correspondence. "Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent John and I in there? CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft" Joan added, still sore about the whole affair.

Mrs Hudson decided to add her two pence to the conversation: "It's a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."

The workload must have gotten to the man after all, as he unexpectedly snapped: "Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson."

"MYCROFT!" both occupants of 221b exclaimed, revolted.

"Apologies" he cringed from his spot in the middle of the room.

"Thank you" the older lady huffed before going back to the kitchen.

"Though do, in fact, shut up" Sherlock added as an after-thought, before his phone **moaned** again, to Martha's embarrassment. After a brief acerbic exchange, Mycroft left the room to take a phone call.

Joan watched her flatmate pretend to not care about the texts. "Are you keeping that text alert?"

His ears flushed slightly. "I seem to have deleted my password to change the settings."

"Oh, did you now?"

"Yes" came the defensive reply. Joan raised her eyebrows. _Well. It appears dear Sherlock is smitten by the mysterious sexy lady._ While she held no warm feelings towards Adler, she could see the appeal. And she recognized the signs of attraction when the Woman looked at Sherlock. The phone sighed again. _I've seen worse relationships work out_ , Joan forced herself to be reasonable and not go strangle the dangerous woman right away.

"I'm wondering who could have got hold of your phone, because it would have been in your coat, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock hid himself behind a paper. "I'll leave you to your deductions."

 _Uh oh. Now he sounds like Harriet trying to hide her new girlfriend when she was nineteen._ "I'm not stupid, you know."

"Where **do** you get that idea?"

Mycroft's return was met with a barely noticeable sigh of relief behind the paper. "Bond Air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later." Watson's thoughts derailed from the worrying perspective of a love-struck flatmate to the even more worrying problem of a joint operation with Americans that they got themselves mixed up in.

Apparently, Sherlock's thoughts went into the same direction: "What else does she have?" In the face of his brother's stubborn denial, he pressed: "Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more." _Is he intrigued by the puzzle or by Adler's involvement, I wonder?_ " **Much** more" the detective stated aggressively in his sibling's face. To Joan's surprise, Mycroft clammed up, which only prompted Sherlock to continue. "Something big's coming, isn't it?"

The older Holmes gave her a fleeting glance over Sherlock's shoulder. She shrugged, as if saying 'what did you expect?'. Mycroft straightened up, image of authority. "Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this."

The detective glowered. "Oh, **will** I?"

"Yes, Sherlock, you **will**." There was a pleading insistence laced in that order, that seemed to soften the blow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."

"Do give her my love" the consulting menace commented while picking his violin. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Joan shrugged to no one in particular, all too used to their antics, and gulped down the rests of her tea.

 _ **# #**_

 _ **A/N:** _I am so sorry. It took me all this time to write that out. Irene is not cooperative at all. Also my brain went on a lot of tangents during that time, so look forward to updates in Alternate Plots.


	36. Chapter 36 - Of letters and distractions

Thank you for your reviews, follows and favs! :)

 **A/N:** I have been thinking for a long time on how to go about it, because Scandal in Belgravia is a study in time skips. I decided to do this story chronologically, or we will all just get lost (well... at least I will) in numerous flashbacks. So, the following chapters will take place between Sherlock & Irene's first meeting and the Christmas party. It will also give me time to make Irene cooperate, because this lady is a tough cookie.

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

 **Warning:** Language; Expect a ghastly murder along the way.

 _ **# #**_

October had been rather cold that year. Joan, who had spent way too much time in the desert the previous decade, was still wearing a double layer of woollen jumpers during the night outings. Sometimes a hoodie too. It had also been really slow on challenging cases, especially after Irene's performance, and Sherlock began to show signs of advanced boredom, despite very distinctive text alerts that echoed through the flat twice a week at least. The gun had been swiftly hidden in a smallish safe under the ex-soldier's bed. She set the code to the birthday date of Bill Murray, so her flatmate could spend just a bit more time cracking it.

On one very uneventful Wednesday, she emerged from the kitchen with a mug of steaming coffee, intent on having a peaceful morning. The lump of a consulting detective sprawled on the sofa wasn't making any noises. She hoped he was asleep and not planning some smelly experiment. The last one ruined one of her oldest and cosiest jumpers.

Mrs Hudson had brought up the mail earlier, and Joan picked the stack before settling in her armchair. There was nothing interesting, bills, adds… and a nondescript envelope addressed to 'Captain Joan Watson'. No sender contacts. _No one from the regiment would actually write a letter. There are emails nowadays. Not Sev or Liam, or their lot either, they would text or call._

She put her mug on the low table, and carefully opened the envelope, mindful not to rip it. Her slow motions attracted the attention of a bored detective, who peered at her silently from his vintage place at the other side of the room. There was a sticky note inside the letter and an actual lock of hair, bound by a rough thread.

Joan blinked slowly at the items in her hands. The sound of stirring and bare feet on the floor alerted her that it got Sherlock's interest too. "What's that?" he asked. His voice held impatient notes. It was his best shot at intellectual stimulation in **hours**.

"Don't know. Fan mail?" she answered softly. Sherlock just scoffed.

"You're not a rock star, John."

"Then why did someone mail me a lock of hair?" The detective hummed and unceremoniously took the envelope and its contents away from her. "Hey, it's not yours!" He gazed upon her with pleading eyes. _Damn, I'm soft. And he's getting better at puppy-eyes._ "Let me see it too."

The man-child grinned cheerfully and strode into the kitchen. The clinking sound indicated that the lab equipment was being set up. Joan sighed, and followed. It was **her** letter, after all. And it was a rare occasion to get Sherlock un-bored.

He was already absorbed in the envelope, looking at it from different angles and sniffing it. "Any luck?" Joan asked, sliding on the chair, at a safe distance from chemical vials.

"Nothing specific." He sounded almost disappointed. "The envelope is one of many bought at a post office, it was sent from Whitechapel yesterday, going by the stamp. The absence of sender's contact isn't alarming in itself, people forget sometimes. The writing however had been carefully altered as to not give any clues as to the person who sent it. All I can say is that it's a male, by the pressure put in capitals, and that he is brimming with self-entitlement."

"And isn't **that** alarming?" she questioned lightly, sipping her coffee.

"As I was going to say" - he glared at her between two glances through the magnifying glass – "taken apart, all these elements wouldn't suggest anything sinister, but put together… I'm inclined to believe this is not some mundane 'fan mail'."

"Gee, thanks for reassuring me." She wasn't really worried, but it was part of her new routine to get Sherlock acquainted with normal human reactions. He blissfully ignored her comment.

"Now, it is addressed to you. 'Captain Joan Watson'. This man knows about your service, it could be the only title of yours he pays attention to. He wasn't your patient either, or he would have added 'Doctor' to the address, with 97% likelihood. He was rather observant or knew you closely enough to know the real spelling of your given name. He doesn't follow your blog but knows where you live. Hmmm."

"Why do you think he doesn't follow my blog?" She was making progress in her deduction-training but wasn't at **that** level yet.

"It's a 79% probability, but I'm inclined to bet on it. He would have known you live with me. And that I'd be able to piece this much together, so he wouldn't have bothered disguising his writing. Anyone comes to mind?" He looked up at her with an inquisitive quirk of an eyebrow. She shrugged at herself internally for being able to see nuances in his eyebrow's tilt now.

"My name wasn't a big secret, you know. Half of the regiment was teasing me about it." Sherlock scowled at the piece of paper. "It could be a prank, honestly." He shook his head slightly, dismissing her idea.

After some additional fumbling the Great Prat didn't deign to comment, the envelope was dismissed, and the lock of hair was carefully put on a petri dish. Using small tweezers, Sherlock slowly extracted one hair to a slide. He leaned forward and inhaled gingerly. Joan looked on passively, already used to various ministrations the detective subjected his experiments to. Since he became engrossed in the analysis of the hair under the microscope, she used the pause to wash her already empty mug and start an actual shopping list on a piece of paper. Meanwhile, Sherlock went back to the petri dish, unravelling the thread binding the hair and sliding it under the microscope.

"Would you like some fresh vegetables for a change tonight?" she finally asked after several minutes.

"No peas" he muttered absently. Joan smirked and added the note to her growing list. "That's interesting."

"What, vegetables?"

"No, your package. The hair belongs to a female." Sherlock was delighted, even at that small of a challenge. For the sake of the less enthusiastic blogger, he elaborated on his findings: "The hair smell of strawberry shampoo, indicating most likely a female. The hair color isn't natural, that much is clear when examining the strand with a strong lens, raising even more the probability of the owner being a woman. The altered color was dark red but started to come off to the natural chestnut. Now why a man, who had been in close contact with army personnel, would want to send you a woman's hair? The lock was cut quite roughly, probably with a large hunting knife, which may indicate that the woman was unwilling to donate it…" At this, he frowned, processing his own deductions through what Joan named 'socially-acceptable-behavior' filter. "Oh." He looked at his friend, who was now scowling at the offending package.

"Are you telling me some creep cut some girl's hair and send it to me?" Sherlock just shrugged, having so far come to the same conclusion. That did more than simply disturb her. If he cut her hair, who knows what else he did. Someone was harming innocent bystanders to get her attention. "Keep going." Now she was pissed off. However, when the resident genius continued, blood ran cold in her veins.

"The thread is rough. Not something used in sewing. More like a rope or a cord. It is cotton, but had been reinforced with thin harder wires…"

"Like an amateur whip" she picked up bluntly. He stared at her in surprise. She felt her face going blank. "Show me the note." Her voice commanded immediate obedience. Shocked into silence, he simply held out the yellow sticky square, marked with the same impersonal script as on the envelope.

' **Retribution shall fall.** '

Unbidden goosebumps coursed down her back, screaming at her to run, to hide, to get out, out, _just go, Jay!_

"John?" Of course, Sherlock noticed something was wrong. _When did he came so close?_ She raised distant eyes to his sharp silver ones. _I don't want him to know._

"I'm fine" she lied. "It just… looks like a sick prank." It sounded exactly like a lame excuse it was.

"Does it mean anything to you?" _Hell yes, it does!_ Of course, he would pry. Joan resisted the urge to snap at her friend. He wasn't at fault here.

"No, nothing at all." The lie burnt her throat, but there was no other way around it. He caught the lie, _why wouldn't he, she was an open book these days_. And said nothing. Something cold and steely settled between them, and he just turned away. _Oh god, he's going to leave._ "Doesn't mean there is nothing more to learn from this." It took a great effort to stop her voice from shaking. Her eyes fell upon the unfinished shopping list. "You have nothing going on anyway. I should go pick up some groceries while we're at it."

Joan didn't look back while she picked her keys and her shoes and practically tumbled down the stairs, leaving a thoughtful Sherlock behind. _Oh god, he will find out, it was over, done, dealt with, I lied to him, he will hate me, oh god, I'm so sorry, please don't be mad…_ The inner voice was clearly having a hard time dealing with the whole situation.

The walk to Tesco's was calming. She even managed to get the milk and beans without much trouble. She forcefully pushed memories away, no need for a flashback in a middle of London. It wasn't even on her official record. To all the world, those days hadn't happened. And those four men were killed in an IED ambush. Her hands itched to pull out her phone and dial a number only a few knew, but there was no time for panic. It could be a prank. It could be unrelated to any of this. _Really._

She came back to find Sherlock completely absorbed by his examination of the thread. He was currently trying to slice a part of it, with a suspiciously hissing vial waiting in the vicinity. The doctor winced at the unsanitary use of acid and started to put away their renewed stash of food. She was about to store some sugar on a high shelve when her leg decided to act up.

With an undignified yelp, Joan pitched sideways, her head in direct line with the counter. A strong hand grabbed her good shoulder and yanked her back, sending them both sprawling on the floor in a heap of limbs. She didn't remember closing her eyes, but now she was staring directly at her flatmate's pyjamas-covered chest. "Sorry!" She scrambled back, momentarily forgetting they were in a rather narrow space of their kitchen. Before Sherlock could stop her, she sat up, her head hitting the table from below. The soldier hissed in pain. Holmes had straightened up too, caught in the middle of a halting motion. He cringed at his friend's plight and tried to move closer to assess the damage.

Joan, still disoriented from the fall and the unexpected head bump, not to mention overall edgy, reacted instinctively to someone moving into her personal space. She lurched to the side, evading the perceived menace, giving a rather violent push to the table to get a momentum. One of her pant legs caught under the metallic chair and the movement made it tear up with a loud screech. She didn't go far either, having hit the counter and knocking her head again, but it made some equipment bounce and fall. They both watched in slow motion as tweezers, empty slides and a scalpel made their way to the floor, miraculously not breaking themselves or anything else. And not spilling any acid around.

Sherlock gasped and scurried to her side on all fours, not bothering to get up. "John! Are you alright?" His eyes searched her face, openly worried. Joan rubbed her long-suffering head, forcing out a small smile.

"I'm an idiot" she informed him in a self-depreciating voice.

"Obviously" he smiled back in relief. They looked back at her leg, which was pretending to be just fine now, thank you very much. The sportswear was definitely ruined. "Perhaps the old saying is true. Idiots are lucky." Joan picked at the tear in her clothes, making it worse. _I really should relax a little more._

The sudden stillness from the dark-haired man at her side set off alarm bells in her head. She looked up from her half-sprawl and saw him staring at her leg. _What now?_ "John." There was a strange mix of emotions in his voice. A fragile askance for permission, a hint of anger and a more-than-healthy dose of curiosity. Joan followed his gaze, and… _Oh._ _Oh well._

"Okay" she sighed. "Look it up. These pants are dead anyway"

The detective perked up, and with surprising gentleness pushed the tear wider. It revealed a rather ugly jagged scar in the fleshy part of her right thigh. It was well-faded, but still visible to the naked eye. Joan forced herself to sag against the counter. "Go on then" she prompted, while nimble fingers ran over her skin, sending sparks into her nerve endings.

"It's an old wound" he whispered reverently. It was oddly endearing. "Fifteen years old at least, possibly more. Something went through your leg. Not a clean scar, the object was rough-edged. Not a sword or any other cutting weapon. It looks like it went through, however, so a sharp object. A broken metal rod?" He was frowning now. "Who did this?"

"No one, really" she replied meekly. "It was my own damn fault. We were about sixteen-eighteen, Harry and I, and we went exploring some old factory with her friends. A test of courage, you know. Some shelves weren't stable and a bunch of teenagers running around didn't help any. We were lucky to get out of there with just my leg being skewered." The broken shelves were about to make Harry into a pancake. She never ran as fast in her life. Seeing this armature hovering and starting to fall over her sister's head was the worst nightmare she had ever had before enlisting.

Her flatmate tilted his head in a very cat-like manner, his eyes certainly catching all the unsaid truths in her story. A gentle smile on his lips, he didn't question her more. "Can you get up?" He looked innocent and child-like, and genuinely concerned, nothing like a cold machine persona he usually showed to the world.

She grinned sheepishly before getting up, picking a couple of slides on her way. "I'm going to change. Sorry about this." Upstairs, she collapsed on the bed face first. _Just stay here until all blows over._ Denial had never been more attractive as right now.

 _ **# #**_

Luckily for the weary doctor, Holmes didn't get time to spend on her morbid letter-puzzle. He got a text from Lestrade in the afternoon and dragged her out in the cloudy autumn day. They rode the cab silently to Whitechapel, Sherlock fumbling with his phone and Joan staring sullenly through the car window.

The apartment building was already cordoned with yellow tape, two forensic vans waiting patiently by the main entrance. It was a recent construction, straight grey lines and no flourish. The constable on crowd duty recognized Sherlock with a startled yelp, and almost tripped over himself to let them pass. Apparently, he also forgot to inform the rest of the team who he just let through, because Sally nearly jumped out of her skin when the duo appeared in the hallway just behind her. The janitor she had been interviewing eyed them both with hostility, which didn't help Joan's simmering temper. _I won't be scared by a sticky note. I won't let a prank get to me. Damn them. I was supposed to have dealt with this, done and gone. Damn them all._

"Fr... Holmes. Doctor Watson." Donovan greeted them coldly. To her credit, she was doing an effort to stay civil, which would have been appreciated by Joan any other day. This time, the doctor just glowered darkly at the police officer, while Sherlock absently nodded in acknowledgement. She looked at them, probably misunderstanding the mood, but wisely not commenting on it. "It's downstairs" she offered eventually.

"Thank you, Sally" Sherlock droned in response, earning an uncertain cringe that could have been a smile under better circumstances. He didn't notice, too busy striding dramatically to the basement doorway. Joan forced a cordial smile on her face, an expression Yarders were used to, before following, blissfully oblivious to the concerned frown that settled on the sergeant's brow.

They descended sickeningly regular stairs to the narrow and dimly lit corridor that led to private storage units that came with apartments. It was literally flooded with police personnel just mutually hindering each other, making them stop at the bottom of the stairs, unable to move forward. A tuft of salt-and-pepper hair navigated through the buzzing activity towards them. "Sherlock, John. Thanks for coming." DI Lestrade had dark circles under his eyes, but seemed rather alert, probably thanks to the strong scent of coffee wafting from his coat.

"You said it was interesting" Sherlock replied evenly, an excited glint finally finding its way to his eyes. They made their way back to the actual crime scene, with a great deal of grunts, pushes, 'sorry' and 'move upstairs, why don't you' from Greg. Holmes' looming presence at his shoulder helped imposing the due authority over the most reluctant ones. Joan just trailed behind, easily dodging inadvertent elbows and knees that came her way. Being of small height and spending time in crowds gave you some special reflexes tall people just didn't have. _Why are they here? All these people… Too many, too close, run, runrunrun._ She made a wilful effort to ignore her claustrophobic tendencies. Their objective was one of the units, set towards the middle of the corridor. The door had been removed from its hinges and carefully leant on the nearby wall. A powerful projector had been set up in front of the doorway.

Lestrade barked some orders at the nearby staff. They grumbled under their breath but moved further down the aisle anyway. Ignoring the resulting commotion, Sherlock stood still just a step away from entering the tiny unit, his gaze cataloguing everything in sight. After a couple of long silent minutes, he clicked his tongue and moved in, going for the detail. There was no space for two in there, so Joan patiently waited outside, shortly joined by the DI. "So, what's bothering you with this one?" she asked to keep herself away from the panic-stricken inner voice's ramblings.

Greg's world-weary sigh spoke of sleepless nights and aggravating superiors. "The victim, Jane Howling… She's been reported missing for three days now. Lives in this same building, and it's her storage" he nodded at the currently doorless cubicle. "A neighbor found it wide open this morning, and well… the girl was inside. It's not pretty." He ran a hand through his already ruffled hair. John gave a compassionate mumble to keep him going. "No one had seen her leave the building or even go downstairs. No witness, no apparent motive, nothing." He was now looking at Sherlock's shadow flickering in the bright light with a kind of desperate hope that made Joan feel ashamed of her weakness. This was someone who recognized her friend's ability to solve the matter quicker than trained professionals, trusted the younger man with actual human lives. And she was freaking out over a stupid sticky note.

The consulting detective emerged from the unit, taking off disposable gloves. "John, take a look." She glanced at the DI, waiting for his customary nod of consent, which came right away. With the lanky figure of her flatmate looming behind, the doctor stepped into the concrete box. And froze instantly at the sight.

It could have been a standard storage unit, with plastic and carton boxes stacked up to the ceiling, overflowing with winter clothes, various knick-knacks and unused furniture still in good enough shape to be kept around. A pair of custom-made ski and ski boots were positioned on the top of the nearest pile. And over all this private backyard of an urban dweller was spread a woman's body, face down, angles brutally accented by the harsh light. She was dressed in a tattered cotton rag that could have been a long dress at some point. Her dark red hair was left wild and free, hiding her face and shoulders from onlookers. And her bare back was covered in dozens of bloody lines, biting deep into her previously unblemished skin.

 _Clammy fingers running down the neck, a moment of respite. Then a flash of pain, again, again and again, until she gave up and cried. Then the cold darkness of a feverish night before it started **again**. It certainly was a slow way of skinning someone alive._

The memory lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to make Sherlock shift impatiently in the doorway. She reflexively slipped into a doctor-mode, cold and professional in the face of horror. She kneeled near the body, putting on her own pair of disposable gloves. The dead skin was cold even through latex.

The rigor mortis had set in entirely, she noticed by feeling the wrist. It had been much abused, sporting a large reddish mark around it. _Ropes burning the skin, holding her up in the dusty air, easy target for what was to come._ Joan was functioning through a haze, a cotton wool bubble hiding the part of her that was screaming to run. The doctor part of her mind noticed that the death couldn't have occurred earlier than 10 hours ago, and that the livor mortis indicated that the girl died here, in this exact position. Frowning, she carefully lifted the hair, revealing a bruised face. Her eyes skirted down the broken jawline to the neck, quickly finding the little speck of a needle point. Letting the dark red curtain fall over swelled eyes, she closely examined the mutilated back. Lacerations were deep, uneven and sometimes crossing each other. A sickly-sweet odor of burgeoning infection assaulted her nostrils, and she winced. Skin had split up due to the vicious assault, but she noticed several indents going deeper in the flesh. _They liked to braid nails or razors in their whips, to enhance the pain. They used it only on those who wouldn't break. It hurt like hell._

"So?" Sherlock urged on the moment she straighten up. Ignoring him, she closed her eyes for a second, sending a silent prayer for the poor girl and only then walking out. She must have looked a little green, because Lestrade immediately tossed her a small bottle of water from god-knows-where. Grateful, she gulped it down before even considering looking at both men. Meanwhile, Sherlock changed his mind about giving up his findings so soon. "Don't talk. I have to see her apartment first."

"What?! I can't let you…" Greg started, outraged.

"I need **all** the data" the consulting prat stressed. "If you want my conclusions to be as accurate as possible, you **will** let me see her flat."

 _ **# #**_

Somehow, when they arrived at the flat, Donovan, Anderson and a red-haired intern Joan had never seen before tagged along. Their party joined the forensics team already on hand on the floor. Sherlock's expression closed off at seeing the rather hostile audience. He stood in the middle of a small living room, glaring at everyone in sight. Usually, Joan would mediate between him and the rest of the world, but she was still perceiving the said world from a bubble which muted all stimuli. Finally, someone had the presence of mind to urgently suggest everyone took a pause, leaving only five people in the room (the still unnamed intern got swept along).

Sherlock spun into action, whirling from room to room, his magnifying glass in hand. Joan stood back in order to catch her breath while the Yarders were too busy ogling at the consultant's antics. When the curly-haired man dropped to the floor and ran a hand under the plush-covered couch, Anderson ended up scoffing: "Oh, come on! Don't tell me the killing took place under that couch?"

"Don't be absurd" Holmes droned, getting up and dusting his coat with dramatic flair. Piercing silver eyes found his blogger, hunched behind everyone's backs, still pale. Something about this case was affecting Joan more than usual, and he didn't know what. It frustrated him to the point he forgot to insult Philip. "Living arrangements of the victim can tell a lot about reasons of her demise." He looked around, taking in the feminine atmosphere of the flat, neat and clean, with predominant pastel blue and green colors. "John" he called. The doctor startled imperceptibly and tiredly looked up. "Tell me what you got. I'll fill in the rest."

The part of her that wasn't hyperventilating appreciated the way he phrased his command. It actually helped her to calm down a little. _'Tell me'. Not them. Trust me. I got your back._ The soldier stood at attention, delivering a report.

"The death had occurred no more than ten hours ago; further tests will narrow down the timeframe. She had been tortured for hours preceding her death. The bruising pattern on her wrists indicates she had been hung by them for a long period of time. She had been beaten, severely. At least a broken jaw and two cracked ribs. I couldn't evaluate the full extent of the damage without moving the body, though."

She paused to take a breath. "That's not all" Sherlock prompted. His gaze didn't leave her for a second since she started talking.

"No, of course not. Her back had been whipped with extreme violence. Judging by the impacts on the flesh, the tool had been braided with razors." At that, Donovan gulped in horror. "These wounds had time to develop an infection. She was left alone for some time before being transported in the storage, drugged and left to die, from internal bleeding or septic shock most likely."

She paused trying to stay in control. Her left hand shook but having been stuffed in a pocket earlier nobody noticed it. Daring a glance at her companions, she was met with quite different reactions. Sally looked like she was going to be sick. Anderson was a little green on the edges too, but mostly sceptical of her conclusions. He had always been too reliant on strict procedure and didn't let himself extrapolate from experience. Greg stared wide-eyed, a mix of horror and surprise in his eyes. She wasn't usually giving her full medical opinion on cases, Sherlock taking care of disclosing almost everything. And then Sherlock himself was looking proud, offering her an appreciative nod in encouragement. Having played her part, Joan let her shoulders sag a little. It was time for the genius to take over.

"It is correct, John" he started in a smug voice. "The victim had been drugged, as evidenced by the needle mark on her neck. But not once. Twice. Look at the kitchen. Everything to make tea is out. Not one, but two cups. She lives alone, that much is clear, only one toothbrush in the bathroom, only one bedside table occupied by personal items. So, there was a visitor, someone she trusted enough to let in and offer him a cuppa – a man is most likely to be the perpetrator -, but she didn't have time to make it. My educated guess is on a cloth soaked in chloroform, she has rather distinctive burning marks around her nose and mouth. Our killer is patient. He waited until wee hours of the morning here, with his victim, constantly reapplying the tranquilizer, to get her out of the building without attracting attention. He was careful enough to not touch anything, but the shape impregnated on the sofa spoils his efforts." Sherlock actually knelt in front of the furniture in question, his fingers tracing without touching the incriminated crease. "He's not tall, per se. Five feet six to eight. Heavily build, but not unattractive…"

He was interrupted by a disbelieving snort from Donovan. Glaring heatedly at her, he didn't even let the poisonous comment take form. "Yes, he must have had a bit of charm, or Ms Howling wouldn't have let him in. Most women are less cautious with men they find 'interesting'." Having successfully glared Sally into cowed silence, Holmes spared a fleeting glance at Joan. She was listening avidly, even if her body radiated nervous exhaustion, her eyes were alert.

"The lock is intact, she willingly invited him in. Chances are, she didn't know him well or at all. This kind of violence is a sure indicator of a twisted mind and can't sustain an illusion of normalcy for long." He was almost prepared for a condescending jab from Anderson, who still lacked any instinct of self-preservation, but it never came. A check from under falling curls revealed that the man had been roughly elbowed in the ribs by a glowering DI. The murderous look on Joan's face helped too. He gleefully catalogued this particular facial expression in his mind palace for future reference before carrying on as if nothing happened. "He is patient, as I said, not giving in his urges. He waited here, with his prey unconscious at his feet, and did nothing. There are fresh scratches on the sofa's leg, indicative of a friction. She had been probably bound with a rope to it, to alert him of a potential escape attempt."

The detective swept to the window, eyeing dispassionately flashing lights outside. "Then he took her out to his torture room. I'll need a sample of the dirt under her soles and nails to pinpoint the exact location, but by the coloration, it was near the docks area. After he was done, she had spent time lying on the ground unattended, not strong enough to flee."

Joan blinked at this, remembering the details of her own examination. Broken bloody nails. A long scratch on the forearm, like it had been dragged on the concrete. _She had crawled, she had tried._ Bile rose to her throat, cackling laughs and pleading sobs of men long dead resonating in the back of her head.

"He has a car with a wide enough trunk to transport a body. There are fibres from a standard-issue car carpet in the victim's hair, not very helpful to narrow down the suspect pool, I'm afraid. He drove back here, waited until no one was in sight, and dragged her down to the basement. Injected her with a paralytic agent and calmly walked away. She was dead an hour or two after that." He finished the explanatory part by turning back to the room, his gaze unreadable.

Greg let out a breath he didn't remember holding. His sergeant and chief forensic were gaping like fishes out of the water at the consultant, unable to formulate even an insult. It was scary, the detail this man could give about a crime. Every time he listened to it, he had a badly repressed feeling of signing a contract with a devil. And then… "Amazing." There was always Joan Watson to make him see reason. No devil, just an eccentric genius, with an infectious smile he hid under thick layers of cold sarcasm.

After a moment where he was positively glowing in praise, Sherlock locked eyes with Lestrade, suddenly serious. "We're dealing with a dangerous man. He had an objective, whatever it might be, and he thinks ahead. He is a madman, but not a lunatic." His voice was grave. "Send the samples to Bart's. I'll be there."

His coat flapped dramatically as he exited the room. With no particular reason, Joan stayed behind. She wasn't supposed to be tailing the tall detective 24/7, after all. However, the habit was persistent. The Yarders started discussing the latest bout of deduction the moment the man left the room. "You can't seriously believe he didn't fabricate all this?" Philip said. "This is ridiculous!"

"He's always right about the big picture" Lestrade chimed in, more interested in typing notes on his phone than participating in the usual Sherlock-bashing his subordinates indulged in.

"Oh, come on, how **he** would know his height or his looks?!"

"I'm with Holmes on this one" Sally replied abruptly. Anderson choked at this, and even Greg looked up from his frantic typing. Joan wasn't exactly surprised. By making the effort of being civil to them, Sergeant Donovan discovered that, when not stressed by insidious comments, Sherlock could be very forthcoming. The man thrived on positive attention and was eager to walk an attentive audience through details.

"What?!" It didn't sit well with Anderson, though.

"There are uncertainties in his story, but overall, it does stick to evidence. As a woman, I agree that I am likely to open my door to pretty face with a plausible excuse, even if I am aware of all the psychos prowling around. Holmes might or might not be right about what happened in here, but I agree with his profile of the killer. More over after what Watson told of the victim's predicament." Sergeant glared sternly at her lover while calmly defending her point. _Girl power, yay,_ commented Joan's inner voice, having momentarily stopped screaming bloody murder. The doctor shrugged at it, and left the flat, waving at the forensic team patiently exterminating several gallons of coffee in the hallway to go in.

Sherlock was nowhere in sight, nothing new here. She really wanted to go home and sleep, or at least take a long hot bath, in lieu of searching for the consulting detective. Luckily it didn't take as long as usual. The tall man was stranded in the entrance hall, cornered by an overexcited red-head. Joan blinked at the scene before giggling softly.

The scene **was** comical. The young man, who apparently had been waiting for this moment his whole life, was shooting endless questions at the detective, at a speed rivalled only by the genius himself in a full-blown deduction rant. Sherlock was honestly trying to answer, but all that came out was a wordless stutter. "… inside out? And why would it be green? Can you tell from the…" Joan caught the last couple of questions and stifled a chuckle. What were they even talking about? She cleared her throat, hoping to halt the inquisitive intern. Weirdly, it worked. The poor boy swallowed the end of his sentence and turned a bright red that clashed horribly with his hair, staring almost adoringly at the doctor. It made her smile nervously, almost dreading her own round of questioning. "Dr Watson… It's… I… it's an honor to meet you!" finally managed the boy. Behind his back, Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared under the unruly bangs.

"Eh… Thank you…" she offered carefully.

"Hopkins, Constable Hopkins, ma'am!" Hopkins was definitely too cheerful for a simple introduction. Joan glanced helplessly at her flatmate for assistance, but the man seemed none too eager to bring the attention back to himself, for a change.

"Alright, Constable, it's nice to meet you too. Will you excuse us, we have to go to…" she was about to give a plausible destination, but the bubbly young man was already bouncing on his feet.

"Oh, do you have a lead? Are you going to follow a lead? Will you chase the killer?"

"Erm, we are going to look for a lead" she tried to sound stern and commanding, but Hopkins reminded her more of a kindergartener than a policeman and she couldn't bring herself to snap him. "I'm sure Detective Inspector Lestrade will keep you all informed." The statement made the red-head positively glow.

She managed to get them out of the building after a few minutes, Sherlock momentarily forgetting his precious case in favor of looking affronted. "He likes you more" he quipped on their way to the main road.

It took Joan almost ten seconds to process that. "Are you jealous?" she smirked.

"I just don't see the appeal" the detective spat indignantly.

 _Oh, dammit all to hell._ Joan stopped abruptly in her tracks, frowning. "Right." She turned away from the main road, where Sherlock already flagged down a cab, and started walking at a brisk pace.

"John! Where are you going?" The prat sounded sincerely surprised.

"Need a walk. See you later" she said coldly over her shoulder, not slowing in the slightest. A short-lived silence behind her was interrupted by a demonstrative slam of the cab door and the car speeding away.

 _ **# #**_

 **A/N2:** Hopkins the red-head popped up in my head before I remembered that there is an actual DI Hopkins in the series. It is not such a rare name, so he stays as is (he's just too cute to be dismissed - think german-shepherd-puppies-cute).


	37. Chapter 37 - Ghosts

Thank you for your follows & favs! :) And omg, over 100 follows! Love you all.

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

 **Warning:** Language.

 _ **# #**_

In the end, her walk ended at Bart's. Lost in thoughts, Joan absently greeted the nurse at the reception and headed for the forensic lab. Inside, a very embarrassed Molly Hooper was hovering with two steaming plastic cups near a very thoughtful Sherlock. The doctor instantly recognized the deep meditative state the man sometimes went into, calling it a "mind palace" of all things.

"Hullo, Molly" Watson greeted softly. The pathologist startled visibly, but thankfully didn't drop the cups.

"Oh, John… How are you?"

"Fine, ta. You should leave the coffee by his side, he'll drink it eventually, you know" she offered helpfully. Molly blushed madly before doing as suggested. She looked at a loss for words. They had a distant but friendly relationship, though the pathologist was clearly uneasy around the woman who lived with her unrequited love interest. Joan let her come around without rushing things. Dr Hooper was a sweet girl, that made the ex-army doctor want to protect her, like a younger sibling. Given that her frame of reference was Harriet Watson, it was a novel experience.

Meanwhile, Molly finally decided on a course of conversation. "He never notices, does he?"

 _Oh, for Christ's sake…_ "He does. Just doesn't realize how much it matters." The crestfallen look on the poor girl's face made her amend her statement a little. "He will understand one day."

It seemed to work, since the mousy doctor perked up a little. "You always cheer me up, John" she said with a small nod, glancing wistfully at the frozen detective again. "I should be going. Paperwork…"

"Yes, of course…" she trailed as Molly hurried out of the room.

Joan sighed heavily. _Girl talk._ _It's still so... ugh._

"Having fun?" a deep baritone interrupted her self-pitying session.

"Absolutely" she retorted with a straight face. An amused snort was a sure sign that the detective dismissed her earlier temper tantrum without taking offense. "Did you think of anything new?"

"Yes. I know where she had been held." In a swirl of wool, the man proceeded to the exit, and Joan tagged behind him, dutiful shadow that she was.

 _ **# #**_

In the cab, Sherlock pretended to be deep in thought to covertly examine his partner. Joan had been tense and guarded since this morning. He didn't bring it up… yet. It was obviously related to the mysterious package, but the nervousness racked up a notch at the crime scene. Something in that storage unit struck a chord with the soldier, who was usually resilient in face of the human violence. He had watched Watson closely during their first cases, looking for signs of a break-down, but she had looked at victims of horrible crimes and felt sadness, compassion, anger on their behalf, but never fear, never revulsion. This time was different.

Personal. _She had been afraid._

Howling's body almost brought a flashback. That was intriguing, since to his knowledge, Joan had never dealt with prisoners of war or abused civilians during her service. She worked in the heat of action, explosions, gunshots, not ropes and knives. The detective was sorely tempted to demand explanations, but his blogger's infamous temper kept him silent. He learnt that sometimes patience was the best option to gain favor of one Dr Watson.

Right now, she looked calm, but a slight tremor in her left hand betrayed an emotional turmoil. Truthfully, Sherlock felt lost. He had not enough data to decide on a course of action. Should he pretend it didn't matter? But it did, it unnerved him to no end. Should he confront Joan about it? She would blow up on him again.

The case kept him occupied for the time being, but he was going to get his answers, one way or another. He just hoped he would not alienate his friend while doing so.

 _ **# #**_

They arrived in a port district. Joan had just the time to text Lestrade with their location, before her companion swept through a hole in a fence. She followed at more leisurely pace. They stumbled between (or in Sherlock's case, gracefully swept over) deep cracks in the concrete and abandoned containers, until they arrived at the warehouse. Everything was eerily silent.

"What now?" she whispered.

"We investigate" Sherlock replied cheerfully. _Riiiight…_

There was nothing much to investigate, really. Dust, empty crates… Joan dutifully followed her friend, watching out for potential threats (boxes falling on his head), trying to squash the uneasy feeling rising again in her gut. _It is nothing. Nothing at all._

At some point, Sherlock dropped to his knees, examining faint traces on the floor ("Dust is eloquent"). He sprang up with a triumphant shout and rushed forward and up the stairs to the second floor that once contained administrative offices. He stopped only for a second at the landing, to confirm the direction of those elusive imprints on the dust. Joan followed at a more sedate pace again and failed to crush into Sherlock's back. The man had stopped short just after the door, frozen in contemplation. "What is it?" Joan grumbled, unable to get a look because the lanky git took too much space.

"Interesting…" was the only input she got, but at least the man moved from the door, going further into the room. It was decently lit, compared to the rest of the building, with two dirty windows letting in some tentative sunlight. Shelves and crates were pushed against walls, leaving the centre bare. There was a hand-made pulley system running between two walls, with a heavy hook dangling in the middle.

Joan's eyes were instantly drawn to that hook, and the ropes hanging loosely from it. And the spatters of dried blood just under. She could picture with numbing clarity what had happened in this room.

Sherlock was circling the spatters with his signature x-ray gaze trained on the floor, unaware of his companion becoming more and more distressed. He fell into the habit of voicing his deductions, something he always did with Joan present. It helped him process the findings faster. "Hmm… traces indicate a body was laid here then moved. No, wait, first it moved on its own, then was dragged, yes, closer to the door." Something else attracted his attention before he could make Joan to move aside. "And that pattern…" Three small circular imprints in the dust, situated at equal distance from each other, had confused the detective at first, but it was short-lived. "Ah, yes. A tripod. He filmed it."

There was a small whimper from the door, and Sherlock's eyes snapped up, surprised he didn't notice a wounded animal in the building. But there was only Joan, white as a sheet, staring at the floor like she was about to be sick. "John?" It was quite an extreme reaction for an army-veteran, more so when the scene had nothing on some of the gruesome murders they had investigated. Unfocused blue eyes darted to meet his. "Are you alright?" he asked, slowly moving towards her.

"I…" her voice was deep and panicked. Sherlock reached out a hand. _Bad move._ Joan jerked away, gaze finally focusing on the detective. "I need to go" she breathed out, turned on her heels and ran as if hounds of hell were after her, leaving a dumbfounded Holmes behind.

 _ **# #**_

 _Run, run, run, runrunrunrunrunrun…_

The smell of blood was driving her faster. _Never, never, ever..._

 _They are dead. They died, and I lived._ But images from the past blended with the dreary warehouse, and it was enough to drive her insane.

She had never pretended to be mentally stable, after all.

Joan ran until she couldn't breathe anymore. She collapsed on a bench in a park, ignoring passers-by's intrigued looks. Her lungs **burnt** and her legs felt like jelly. The physical exhaustion managed to clear her mind a little from the fog of panic. When she could finally stand up without passing out, she started walking quickly with no destination in mind, just eager to move, to not stay in one place, pushing her body's limits. It had the added bonus to make her more difficult to trace by ever-present Holmes brothers. Boy, didn't she want to explain this episode to them.

Her stomach grumbled with hunger. She resigned to duck into a small café, to grab a pastry and a coffee, before briskly walking away, clinging to the small act of sanity. London was living, shining around her as the night fell, but Joan kept on moving, _one step at a time_. Ghosts of bloodied men and white-clad killers were calmly following her, just behind, just out of her peripheral vision, whispering, nagging, pleading, cursing. Their clammy hands brushed against her vest, her neck, her hair, _or is it wind?_

She knew that they would devour her as soon as she stopped. So, she walked, forward, _forward, don't look back_ , until there was nothing but the constant buzz of their accusing voices in her ears, and Joan slid down a wall into blissful darkness.

 _ **# #**_

Lestrade arrived at the murder scene with forensics in tow, expecting to find a smug Holmes and an apologetic Watson leaving the building to run after the lead the NSY had yet to uncover. Instead, he found a very perplexed consulting detective lounging on a crate outside the presumed torture room. "Sherlock?"

Silver eyes flickered to him before going back to contemplating the opposite wall. "The scene is all yours, Lestrade."

Gesturing to his team to start working, he sat next to the tall man. "Something bothering you?"

"Nothing for you to worry about" came the clear dismissal, but the DI was determined to be a better friend. At least, the determination usually held until Sherlock started deducing his home life.

"Anything we need to know about this guy?" he tried, knowing that inviting Holmes to share his ideas was always a good way to get a lecture on tobacco ashes or something equally ridiculous but helpful. Well, almost always apparently, since the man just huffed and stayed silent. "Come on, give me something" he accompanied the prodding with lightly poking Sherlock in the ribs.

The detective swatted his hands away, a look of irritation passing on his impassable face. "The scene merely confirmed my early conclusions. I will inform you of any new developments." He stood up, popping up his collar with flourish. "I have other things to consider right now."

"You do?" Greg was surprised to hear that. Sherlock was known for staying focused on one case at a time.

"As a matter of fact, yes, Lestrade, I do have other occupations" the consulting headache snapped at him.

"Alright, alright…" He also stood up, lifting his hands in surrender. However, it reminded him of something… "Did you send John off somewhere?" Holmes glowered at him. "Well, she'd usually be with you at a scene."

There was a peculiar silence between them, during which Sherlock slowly lost his passive-aggressive stance, giving a peek at how bemused he really felt. "John had an unexpected reaction to the scene. She left, and I don't know where she is right now."

It took Greg several moments to process that titbit of information and make logical conclusions. _Joan Watson had a panic attack and Sherlock let her go away on her own. Unless…_ "Did you fight?"

"No!" the younger man protested, hands flying up to emphasize his point. "She just said, "I need to go" and ran away. I know what it is, Lestrade, clearly a PTSD episode, but I don't know **why**." He was pacing in the small space of the corridor now. He was right, Watson wasn't easily fazed, that much was established soon enough in their weird-but-somehow-working flatshare (how did she stand eyes in the microwave was a mystery to them all). But the reasons for her reaction weren't a priority, _God, don't I know that small innocuous things could be a trigger, had seen enough colleagues struggle with it_. The problem was that the ex-soldier had been left alone with it.

"I'm putting out a search warrant for her" he informed Sherlock, pulling out the phone. "Who knows what she could do to herself or to others in that state."

Sherlock's eyes widened in realization, and Lestrade felt faintly smug to have thought of something before the man. It would have been more satisfying if it wasn't under such circumstances.

 _ **# #**_

Sherlock wasn't amused. He had recognized the signs but didn't have time to act on them. And now, Joan's condition and whereabouts were distracting him greatly from the case.

 _Fact:_ _John was in a bad mood since the morning's anonymous letter._ _Fact:_ _The case didn't improve her disposition._ _Fact:_ _The recently discovered murder scene provoked a panic attack._

 _Calculating correlations. Insufficient data._

 _Tentative assumption:_ _Something about the case strongly reminded John of a traumatic event._

 _But which one?!_

It couldn't possibly be the army, there were no indication of military or any paramilitary groups in the current matter, nothing at all. The killer acted alone, didn't share. Perhaps filming was a clue… But no, it was clearly for personal use. What could have triggered a seasoned soldier and doctor? _I am missing vital information…_

"Who knows what she could do to herself or to others in that state." _…and apparently my judgement had been heavily clouded by this._ He had researched PTSD and its most tragic outcomes, even prior to his acquaintance with Joan (there were occasional cases where the only criminal to blame was the bad luck that irrevocably broke a person's psyche). And he let his flatmate go unsupervised in the middle of a rather bad episode.

 _She could hurt herself,_ whined a voice similar to Molly's in his head. It was true, he often attempted to destroy himself when he felt trapped inside his own head. _Why would John be different?_

Sherlock pulled out his own phone, texting Mycroft to urgently locate and secure Joan Watson.

 _ **# #**_

Joan woke up in a pastel-blue room, her entire body aching from her exceedingly long walk. She was laid on a comfortable bed, an IV drop stuck inside her elbow, but no other medical equipment in sight. _When did that happen…_ Ghosts were still whispering, yelling, in her ears, but their voices were fainter now, more distant.

Sitting up, she noticed that the room was strangely bare of furniture or any indication of the exact location she ended up in. The wooden door in front of the bed creaked open, pulling her out of the silent threat assessment.

"Glad to see you awake, Dr Watson" said the usually arrogant voice. It sounded strangely tame this time.

"Mycroft" Joan sighed. "I suppose I should thank you."

He gave her his signature " _You are beneath me, mortal"_ look. "You should. We picked you up passed out in the… less reputable part of London." She didn't remember much of her walk, at least not the places she'd been. Though she could remember all the things said by her panic-induced hallucinations.

"Yeah, well... Thank you." She looked around again, uneasy under the calculating gaze. "Are you restraining Sherlock from barging in to yell at me?"

"He isn't informed of your current location." That made her sit up straighter, her voice dropping down into the Captain's register.

"Meaning?" _Is he committing me to an institution without my consent?_

Mycroft's features unexpectedly softened. "That I presumed you would need time to gather your thoughts before a confrontation with my brother." Joan didn't quite know how to respond to that and simply blinked. "He can be rather hurtful in his concern, and you don't need an additional strain."

Her mind flashed back to the hospital, just after the pool incident, and the cold _freezing, debilitating,_ baritone trying to push her away. _Indeed._ Her gaze dropped to the IV, still poking into her arm. "Am I allowed to leave?" she inquired, fiddling with the needle. The older Holmes frowned at her but said nothing. "You wouldn't want an unhinged soldier around your brother, would you?" Distant ghosts were bellowing their mocking mirth now.

To her absolute astonishment, Mycroft glided the few steps to the bed and sat at its foot. Deliberate close-quarters were usually an intimidation tactic with him, but there was not a hint of threat in the posture. Joan tensed.

"I suppose you understand what happened" he finally said. Joan nodded slowly. She'd be a fool to deny it. "I have to commend you, by the way, you **do** manage it rather well on daily basis." _Is that a compliment?..._ "You should know that I am aware of what triggered your episode." _Pain, blood, blood, sand, pain, where, why, please no, no, please, pain, no…_ There was a calming hand on her wrist, and she was clenching thin sheets, _no sand, no blood_. "John" called the voice, so close to Sherlock's but not quite, _not him_.

"I'm fine" she hissed, forcibly relaxing her fists.

"I was not in charge of these operations at the time. Believe me, it would have been handled better than this. You wouldn't have been involved at all." _His eyes are darker than his brother's, hazel brown, but they usually are so icy. Not right now. Why not?_ Her thoughts were jumbled, twisting, turning, never ending. "My people are investigating how the perpetrator could have gotten this information." The hold on her wrist tightened before releasing it, leaving a warm imprint on her skin. _Not sand, not blood, just touch._

"It wasn't supposed to happen…" she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She wasn't sure what she was talking about, the buried past or the screaming present.

Mycroft nodded, looking grave. "You should rest here for now. There is no need for you to continue this case."

Ghosts were fading into shadows in the corner of her mind. Joan felt utterly exhausted. "Maybe just a little" she agreed. She could still see the concerned tight not-quite-a-smile on Mycroft's face and him getting up, before falling back on the cushion and let the sleep claim her.

 _ **# #**_

She woke up in the same room, rested and clear-headed. Carefully removing the IV, she finally got out of the now rumpled bed, and took a tentative step towards the only window. It was around midday, meaning that she had slept through at least a full night. _A new record. Did he put some sedatives in the drop?_ The door creaked again, and the recognizable steps followed. "Morning. Were you waiting just behind the door?" she greeted, not turning around, curiously observing the impressive oak tree on the other side of the glass.

"Not quite, but I was expecting you to wake up around this time."

"Where are we?" she inquired, turning to face Mycroft.

"My house. It appeared as the most appropriate location at the moment."

Joan quirked an eyebrow at this. Trust Mycroft Holmes to have a bare guest room with a saline water IV drop at his place. "Thank you."

The man appeared unperturbed, but his eyes softened slightly. He joined her at the window, giving a passing glance outside, probably ensuring the positioning of his security detail. "You can stay here, if you wish."

It was a generous offer, but Joan felt too restless to accept. The initial shock subsided, and she slowly convinced herself that it was just a coincidence. _Just bad luck._ The whole case made her extremely uneasy. Therefore, she couldn't just leave Sherlock deal with it alone. "I'd feel better on the field."

Mycroft sighed, seemingly resigned to deal with stubborn idiots. "While I appreciate your concern for my brother, I do not wish to force you into harm's way, John."

"No one's forcing me at all" she protested, only a blink betraying her surprise at the older man's words. _He just basically declared that he cares about my well-being. Well, damn._

Another sigh. "Please call me if Sherlock becomes insufferable." The absence of a reminder about top secrecy and classified information was another tell-tale sign of Mycroft yielding to sentiment for once.

 _ **# #**_

The black sedan dropped her at Bart's and disappeared into traffic without a trace. Wincing at the mere thought of the shouting that would certainly ensue, Joan dragged her feet to the reception desk, where she bumped into Molly Hooper. The mousy pathologist yelped in surprise, though she managed to not drop the stack of files in her hands, then stared angrily at Joan. "Molly, hi" the ex-soldier said, arching an eyebrow at the unusual reaction.

"What are you doing here?" was the heated reply. _That's new._ Molly was never aggressive. Never. This shocked Joan into awkward silence, while the riled-up woman continued: "Sherlock was going spare because of you! Where have you been?!" _Oh my. Sherlock had been worried and it made her jealous, innit? But she's too good of a person to stay jealous, so she's just angry now._ "Well, answer me, John!"

Feeling her eyes widen in further surprise, Joan tried to placate the furious storm that had once been the shy and unassuming Molly: "I didn't intend to worry him, Molly. I was barely aware of myself most of the time, though. But I came back as fast as was possible."

The cutting glare toned down, and the woman frowned. "What happened?"

Not eager to share the story with anyone, let alone with the hospital's gossip treadmill, Joan grabbed Molly's elbow and guided her gently towards an empty corridor. "A crime scene triggered a flashback" she confided after making sure no one would overhear them. The frown dropped, and Molly's face became an interesting mixture of worry and embarrassment.

"Oh, John …"

"Don't fret" she smiled sharply. "I'm not very happy with myself either."

Brown eyes widened in concern. "Are you injured? Have you had a check-up?" It was easy to forget sometimes that Molly was a medically trained professional. But she managed to remind this fact to the world occasionally.

"I'm alright, Molly. Really." They started to walk to the lab Sherlock usually haunted. "It's not first time it happened" she finally confided. "Had been a long time since the last relapse, though."

"It's your time in the army, isn't it?" Molly asked timidly.

"Yeah. It's like an avalanche, once it goes off, I can't stop it by myself." There was no harm done in admitting this. _Admitting a weakness is proof of healing_ , as Ella used to say. Joan knew that truth for a long time. Admitting a weakness allowed to find a way to defend against it. It didn't work that well lately, but the idea had merit.

They stopped in front of the closed door, Molly twisting her fingers nervously. "Are you sure…"

"Should be alright. I have it under control now." Joan smiled reassuringly ( _why am I the one doing the reassuring again?_ ), took a deep breath, and went in.

The hospital should have really invested in lights. The lab was as dark as she remembered from her fateful visit in January, and the hunched silhouette over a microscope added to the sense of déjà-vu. "Hey."

Sherlock turned around so quickly, she could hear his neck crack. A chair cluttered to the ground, caught in the movement. He looked haggard, hair in disarray from incessant tugging and shirt unbuttoned at the collar. But his eyes were as piercing as always, and they were literally dissecting her. Joan shifted a little closer, trying hard to not appear too guilty. There was a deep frown on Sherlock's face now. "You stayed at Mycroft's" he stated coldly, his brother's name spat with unparalleled disgust. "Why didn't you come home?"

Joan's eyes snapped to him, narrowed at the implied accusation. "I wasn't thinking straight."

"Clearly." Sherlock's voice was dripping with contempt, like a poisoned dagger. "Otherwise, you would have informed me about your condition, and we would have all avoided the trouble."

"Oh my, so sorry for being a such a pscyho!" the doctor exploded, unwilling to take the abuse right now, even if it steamed from genuine worry. She took a step forward, openly glaring at the befuddled detective. "I'll just go and lock myself up somewhere for the rest of my days then!"

Sherlock flinched at the vehemence in her words and his jaw tightened. "This is not what I meant, John! You knew it was coming, you should have warned me!"

"I certainly did **not** expect it to happen! You think I planned this or something?!" They were shouting at each other now from different sides of a table, eyes flashing with anger.

"I don't know!" he bellowed, slamming his hands on the table. They stared at each other in the ringing silence, panting from the shouting match. Finally, Sherlock lowered his eyes. "I don't know" he repeated quietly.

 _I was worried_ , she read between the lines. Rubbing her neck in shame, Joan looked away. "Sorry."

The now awkward silence stretched for a minute. "What happened?"

Joan started to fidget with the hems of her jumper. "It… I don't know, it reminded me of something. Things that were done to hostages, back there. Things they would transmit to a local network. It just… made me snap." _Snap. That's the right word._ Sherlock was watching her from under his messy locks, radiating polite disbelief. _I'm lying by omission, and he knows I'm lying, and he doesn't like it._ "I'm fine. I can work now."

He took his sweet time to gather his words. "Another woman, Liz Burton, was reported missing last night. Lestrade was called in, since they found Jane Howling's ID in the flat." Joan sighed imperceptibly, glad to be back to business, but knowing an interrogation was coming at a later date. "He also left a coded message and a lock of the new victim's hair glued to the front door."

 _Hair. This is something different, **his** signature. _"A coded message?" she asked, trying to very hard to ignore the unsettling feeling forming in her gut.

"Yes, a quite complex one at that" Sherlock droned, gesturing to a piece of paper in a plastic evidence bag. Joan hesitantly picked it up. It looked vaguely like the standard military code, which she stated immediately. "Really? I was wondering."

"It seems based on it, at least."

"Tell me." His voice commanded obedience, and Joan was just glad to get her mind off the nagging feeling that something was not right. _Not a coincidence._ They spent two hours going over the basics, then Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement and started writing furiously on a random notepad.

Sighing, the doctor gathered the scattered notes and photos from crime scenes. The evidence bag with a lock of hair was lying in wait by a microscope, somehow forgotten by the detective. Joan picked it up absently, meaning to store it on an evidence shelf, and froze in her tracks. _No, no, it can't be right._ The hair, mostly covered in glue, was tied with a rough piece of rope, very similar to what she had received in the mysterious letter. _What if… he sent me the first victim's hair. No, can't be._ She shook her head in denial. _The whole disaster was classified. A random psycho can't know about it._ Quickly dropping the evidence back on the table, she turned away, working through her breathing exercises to calm down.

"Aha!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, badly startling the ex-soldier. He didn't notice her flinch, too excited by his own success. "I got it!" He brandished a page torn from the notepad, filled with his pointy hand-writing. "Your help was invaluable, John" the consulting detective smiled happily, bad mood and worry forgotten.

Joan smiled weakly in return, reading closely the deciphered text. It contained only numbers, that resembled geographical coordinates. Dragging up her orientation training from dark recesses of memory, she frowned: "It's in London."

"Yes!" Sherlock was almost jumping in place from impatience.

 _A kid on a sugar high, that's what he is._ "Baker Street first" she said plainly, voice no bearing no argument. "I need to collect my gun."

 _ **# #**_

They arrived at the apartment complex just before the sunset. Sherlock confidently strolled into the hallway, not even bothering to check it for traps, making Joan twitch nervously. He was about to do the same on the third-floor landing ( _thank god we took the stairs_ ) when the ex-soldier harshly pulled him back by the elbow. "I go first" she hissed in a voice that demander obedience.

"But…" the detective protested on reflex. The glare he earned made him shut up instantly.

"He waits for us. I go first" she repeated, already cocking the gun and quietly sliding along the wall further down the corridor.

They progressed slowly, checking every door for potential threats. Joan relied on Sherlock's skills to identify the correct one: whenever she got into waiting position, the man would come, give it an assessing glance and shake his head, and then they would continue to the next door. Until they arrived at the one left ajar.

Exchanging a tense look with her companion, Joan slid into the thin opening. Behind her, Sherlock manoeuvered the door to open more widely without any noise. The flat was unlit, the eerie twilight only bothered by emergency exit signs outside and unveiled window in the small kitchen on their right, letting in the last rays of sun of the day. The door to the only room was closed, red firelights flickering under it.

Joan and Sherlock approached the door with caution, even if the blogger was convinced the only reason Holmes didn't rush inside like he owned the place was her being in the way with a loaded gun. Placing themselves on both sides of the entrance, Sherlock slowly pushed it open (because longer arms are more practical in such cases).

Peering warily inside, Joan's blood ran cold. Then she was throwing her gun into stunned Sherlock's hands and rushing in, towards the bloodied naked woman hang by her hands to the ceiling ( _chandelier hook?_ ) and surrounded by dozens of candles.

 _Pain, pain, paindeath, painnonodontpain…_

Her hands flew to check the vitals. _Pulse. Thank god._ The sound of Sherlock entering made her twitch again, but she was in the full medic mode and focused on the rescue. Sherlock could be trusted to watch their backs. She put her arms around the poor girl's waist, carelessly smearing blood and sweat all over her jacket, and pushed the body up and forwards. The tied hands slipped off the hook and Liz Burton collapsed.

The movement jerked her back into consciousness, and she started wailing, shaking with sobs on the floor. Joan crouched next to her, gently removing the rope biting into her wrists. "It's ok, sweetie, it's over, shush, I'm with you…"

Perhaps, she was unforgivably careless. Perhaps, she shouldn't have given in the panic and the terror of seeing the victim like this. Or trusted Sherlock with a gun. Or forget her training even for a second. But she did.

There was a grunt from behind, and a sound of a grown man falling. _Sherlock._ Liz sobbed harder, Joan jumped up and froze in horror.

Sherlock had slid down the wall, eyes wide and aware, but unable to move. A slender man stood over him, an empty syringe at his feet and her own gun pointed at Sherlock's head. Pearly white teeth showed when his roguish face stretched in a maniacal grin.

"What have you done?" Joan asked evenly, trying to sound calmer than she felt. _Drugs, it has to be, dammit, for a former junkie Sherlock gets drugged way too frequently…_

"Paralytic" the murderer informed them. _Paralytic. Jane Howling died from it… no, internal bleeding, she couldn't move, for long, long hours… dammit!_ Her eyes snapped to Sherlock's prone form. He was desperately trying to lift his arms, judging by jittery tremors that run through them. His lips twitched, and the look of pure panic and angry determination sent shivers down her spine. Sherlock was never one thing, and often a mix of contradictory emotions at once. It gave her strength.

"Now I can do the right ending" the criminal said gleefully, devouring Joan with his eyes but gun still unwaveringly aimed at Sherlock. _Ending?..._ "The tape was wrong." _Tape?..._ The camera rolling. The smell of blood on dust, so much like the cave that it sent her running. The bruising, the cuts. She had thought it was a coincidence. Instead, it had been carefully designed to look like that particular nightmare, perhaps with some personal flavour of psychosis, but still...

"Jon…" Sherlock managed to mumble, tearing her from the throngs of an upcoming flashback. _No time to break, Jay. Act first. Die later._

Her gaze locked on the perp. "And how do you suggest we do that?" she drawled. "The police will be there in five minutes. I always have back-up." She even smiled coldly at the man, who was now looking almost heartbroken, like a kid who lost his candy. The back-up was an absolute lie, though. She had been too out of it to keep Lestrade posted on their whereabouts.

The confusion quickly morphed into anger on the handsome face, and the maniac snarled, lifting the gun for better aim. "I can still do that."

Her heart dropped in fear, but Joan pushed through the haze. _Adrenaline. Focus. Distract._ "You don't want to do that" she claimed, voice clad in cold disinterest, in stark contrast to the raging storm in her head.

"Why not?" he snarled again in return.

"You want to finish the tape" she said slowly, searching for words, _the right ones._ That was Sherlock's forte after all, not hers. "The girls were… just training. You… need **me**." That's why he sent her the letter. That's why he made it easy to be found. He needed the real deal.

"Jn…don't…!" Sherlock tried to talk, but his lips were barely moving. His fingers twitched in effort, and Joan had to commend his resistance to narcotics. _However,_ _right now, he is helpless. I am not._

The murderer stared at her with awe, a mad desire burning on the surface of grey eyes. The man was sick. _Doesn't make it any better._ "I'll cut you a deal" she continued. "You leave these two unharmed, and I go with you without a fight."

"Jo…!" Sherlock tried again, stronger. She paid him no heed.

"Think of it. Your perfect ending." This seemed to cut it for him, as the gun switched to her.

"Deal" he said breathlessly.

 _ **# #**_

 _ **A/N:**_ Just to let you know, I am now cross-posting this on ao3. I wanted to re-arrange the chapters (especially for the first ones) but couldn't do it here without losing the reviews. So, this same story on ao3 has only 15 chaps now, who are of a more consistent length.


	38. Chapter 38 - The tape

Thank you for your reviews, follows & favs! :)

 **Disclaimer: '** Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

 _ **# #**_

 _Stupid, stupid, STUPID!_ How could he fall for such a trick again?! Of course, the murderer would be laying in wait. He wasn't quick enough to avoid the needle, too absorbed in cataloguing the military paraphilia on the walls. And now, the great Sherlock Holmes was reduced to the state of a puppet with its strings cut, slumped on the floor, only able to watch his friend face a psychotic murderer, who also managed to get hold of a gun. _Well, shit._

"The tape was wrong." _Tape? What tape? There is an antiquity in the corner, with a worn, often watched VHS tape on it. Is he trying to emulate some movie?_ Joan had glanced around too, clearly noticing the recorder. The look of unadulterated terror that painted on her face broke Sherlock's supposedly inexistent heart. Joan was always the strong one, the reliable one. Rarely fazed, always supportive. He had abused of those qualities often enough to know them. He had never seen her so panicked, not even at the bloody pool after hours of physical torture and with snipers aiming at their chests. He willed desperately his arms to move. They didn't.

But what caused that reaction? Surely not the derelict device.

 _Evidence:_ _tape, contents unknown._

 _Fact:_ _A recording inspired the crime spree. Evidence: "_the right ending _"._

 _Assumption A:_ _Crimes scenes were modelled after the recording._

 _Fact:_ _The murder scene reminded a traumatic event to John._

 _Conclusion A:_ _John knows what is on that tape._

 _Fact:_ _John is terrorized by the recorded event._

 _Conclusion B:_ _pending…_

Joan's eyes widened impossibly, and she swayed slightly on her feet, blood leaving her face. _Not good. We can't afford to have both of us incapacitated._ He forced his mouth to work. "Jon…" It seemed to snap her out of the shock, and Sherlock resumed his attempts to move, until…

"You… need **me**."

 _Conclusion B:_ _John is a protagonist of the tape. ( Supporting evidence: John avoids eye contact with me.) She is trying to sacrifice herself to get the danger away from me. And the victim too._

 _Wait, what?! No, no, no, nononono. Out of question._

"Jn… don't...!"

She didn't listen. And the man played into her hand.

"Jo…!"

They were leaving, Joan walking in front of an armed psychopath with a death toll. In his mind, Sherlock was already ripping the man's limbs one by one, but only his fingers twitched in response to brain stimuli.

The paralytic took hours to wear off. Hours the killer had alone with Joan.

The victim, _Liz?_ , had fallen face down on the floor, too weak from blood loss and pain. She needed medical help, and soon. _Dammit._ _Dammit. Where is bloody Mycroft when I need him?!_

Minutes ticked by, with Sherlock growing more frantic by the second. His legs started to respond a little after _thirty minutes, forty-eight seconds_. He briefly blessed the gods for his stint with drugs, as his resistance to common substances was exceptionally high. He managed to move his head after _seventy-three minutes, eleven seconds._ His hands were at 47% capacity after _ninety-four minutes, fifteen seconds_.

With trembling fingers and several aborted attempts, Sherlock managed to pull his phone out. It took him an unimaginable _thirteen_ more minutes to unlock it and dial Lestrade on loud speaker.

"Sherlock? Do you have something?" He had never been so happy to hear the DI.

"Found him…" His tongue wasn't fully cooperative yet, and he slurred.

"You alright?" The voice over the line became urgent.

"Ambl… ance." Lestrade cursed. "Hurry" Sherlock added, eyeing worriedly the pale and unmoving form of Liz Burton.

"Where are you?" Somehow, he managed to communicate the address. "Hang on there. We're on the way. I'll try to reach John."

 _John, who is still with the killer._ "He got her" Sherlock gritted through his teeth, and curses coming from his phone reached a new level of obscene.

By the time the police arrived, paramedics in tow, Sherlock recovered 81% of his moving capacities and was trying to hiss himself up and type on his phone at the same time. Lestrade rushed to his side, while people in white surrounded the fallen woman. "Sherlock! God, are you ok?"

"Was just drugged" he answered evenly despite the effort it took. "John left with him." His chest gave a painful throb at the remembered scene. "I'm trying to calculate his route."

Lestrade's horror-stricken face hardened, taking in stride the change from ' _John had a panic attack and ran away_ ' to ' _John got abducted by a psychotic killer'._ "Does he use a car?" At the _I'm dealing with idiots_ glare he received, the DI coughed sheepishly. "Right. Then let's get you out at least."

Supporting himself on walls and sometimes on Lestrade, Sherlock was rather glad to flop down on a passenger seat of a car, even if it was a police vehicle. Then he remembered the look of desperate fear on Joan's face at the mention of the tape, and the helpless rage cut his breath again. _She is not getting hurt by my fault again!_

 _But she is. Right now._

 _NO!_

The police radio crackled. "Accident reported. Black Fiat on roadside on Kingston road. Closest officer please respond."

The killer had car keys. He saw him fumble with them. _Processing image. Cross-referencing to database. Keys with a Fiat logo._ Sherlock sprung up, still unstable on his feet, latching on Lestrade's arm. "It's him! We need to get there! NOW!" _Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn…_

Used to obey the detective's most ridiculous demands in emergency situations, the DI didn't protest. Stuffing Sherlock back into the car, he tore off in the general direction of the supposed car accident, simultaneously calling for back-up.

They arrived there in record time, sirens blazing. There was indeed a black car spattered around a non-functioning light pole, with no movement in sight. Under harsh front lights of Lestrade's car, they could see the shape of airbags still inflated inside.

"Not John…" escaped Sherlock before he could stop it. Greg gave him a sharp look, while pulling out his gun.

"Stay back" he ordered, popping out of the car. Holmes would have protested, but while having mostly recovered from the paralytic agent, he was still in no shape to help. Nothing stopped him from getting out though.

 _ **# #**_

Lestrade progressed slowly to the silent vehicle. There was a human form slumped in the passenger seat, and he felt his heart clench in apprehension.

A branch cracked under someone's foot, and his attention snapped in that direction, ready to fire. A gasp from behind ("John!") ensured him that it was not a hallucination.

Joan Watson emerged from the shadows surrounding the scene, jacket covered in grime and blood. Her face was a stone mask marred by tearstains, and cold, cold eyes fixed on the wrecked car. Her cheek was bruised, and she held her left arm stiffly against her body but otherwise seemed in one piece.

A stumbling tornado commonly known as Sherlock stormed up to her, stopping only centimetres away. "John." The usually imperious voice was pleading, making Greg startle while re-holstering his gun. Blue eyes slowly dragged themselves to the lanky detective. "What happened?" It was a good damn question.

Joan's lips twitched in cruel amusement. "He let me drive" she said calmly.

Daring a look into the wreckage, both Lestrade and Holmes were strangely gratified to see the unconscious killer sprawled on the seat and secured with a whip for good measure.

 _ **# #**_

The idiot put her behind the wheel, trying to look menacing with the gun. But now that it wasn't aimed at her friend's head and that there wasn't a tortured woman on the floor sobbing, he was merely a target to her.

He gave directions, weapon wavering as he tried to keep an eye on the road. They arrived at a long straight line, with no other vehicles in sight. _Perfect._

"Do you have your seatbelt on?" she inquired conversationally.

"No" came the honest and surprised reply.

"Good."

Her left hand swatted the gun away, while she stepped on the accelerator and jerked the wheel to the right. With a terrified yelp from the wannabe kidnapper, the car smashed into a light pole, which flickered and died, plunging them into the darkness. Airbags blasted to life, preventing the bastard from going through the front window, but he was well underway to there, while Joan simply got bruised ribs and a violent smack on her face from the impact. The force of it knocked her out for a minute though.

She came to the wash-up whiteness of the airbag and the smell of heated metal. Frowning ( _cold breeze, London, not the cave, London_ ), she pushed herself upright. Luckily neither her belt or the door was jammed, and she spilled out, panting in pain from the bruised ribs. After minutes of merely gulping up the air, Joan got up and rounded the car. The murderer, whose name she still didn't know ( _his heroes were nameless, he shall remain nameless as well_ ), moaned. His forehead was washed in dark red. _Irreparable brain damage most probable. Good._ The world spun a little.

There was a sports bag on the back seat and shivering with delayed shock and disgust she rummaged through it. A couple of knifes, more rope and the infamous whip.

 _Pain and death. Ambient smell of blood. Sand under her nails, under her skin. Rough hands. Blood-curling cries. She couldn't save them. She had avenged them. Almost. It had never been enough._ They still ached on rainy days, scars she had earned during those forgotten days and bits of her forever lost in the aftermath.

A car flashed by, snapping Joan out of her dark memories. But it was only temporary, the darkness still lingered on the back of her mind, ready to lurch and grab and devour.

With professional efficiency, she handled the man back into his seat. His eyes blinked open, clouded and unseeing. She stared at him, feeling vague pity and anger. "You see, you should have watched that tape more closely" she rambled, knowing full well that he couldn't understand her anymore. "I got out. They died. And they were way stronger than you." She didn't remember tying the whip around him, but it was alright. _Retribution enough._

Feeling weaker by the second, Joan meandered to the roadside, nearly falling to the ground, and propping her back against a helpful tree.

The darkness came, and she could do nothing but quietly cry.

God knows how long after, a BMW screeched to a halt near the wreck, an armed Lestrade getting out and advancing carefully to the car. A head of unruly curls climbed out the passenger side, and Joan, still hidden in the shadows, felt that she should join the party, despite the bone-crushing despair she let settle inside her heart.

Greg's face crumbled at the sore sight she presented, but before he could comment, a very much mobile and alive Sherlock nearly bowled her over, stopping only because he was unsure of what to do himself. "John. What happened?" Silver eyes cut through the haze, grounding Joan in the present.

"He let me drive." The mixed look of mock-fear and pride on Sherlock's face was a welcome change from the ambient gloom.

Sirens flashed in the distance.

 _ **# #**_

Joan stayed on the spot, arms wrapped around herself as if to keep the cold at bay. She didn't want to move. Police mulled around, like water running around a rock in its path, giving her nervous glances from time to time. Lestrade and Holmes were busy inspecting the car for evidence. Sherlock looked a little fidgety, but mostly alright. She'll have to run some bloodwork to be sure though. _Maybe Molly could help…_ Her gaze wandered to the dark trees nearby and she caught herself longing for their silence.

"John?" called the low baritone, and Joan could feel silver eyes dissecting her without looking up.

"I'm fine."

"What you did was stupid" he suddenly blurted out. _Stupid?!_

Her eyes sharpened and focused on her clueless friend, making him gulp. "He was about to blow your brains out." Joan's voice was silk and poison, something she didn't let out often.

"But you didn't have to…"

"Are you suggesting I should have let him?"

"No, but you could have…"

"Oh reeeeally?"

Part of her (the one who held grudges) noticed that it was mildly satisfying to interrupt Sherlock I-always-have-the-last-word Holmes. The part that was a good friend reasoned that being an offensive git was Sherlock's coping mechanism. But it was the part that was still terrified and acted on pure instinct that took charge.

Leaving the consulting detective gaping after her, Joan marched to the DI. "We need to get back to that apartment. There is something I need to check."

Lestrade didn't look very convinced. "Are you sure, John? You need to go to the hospital."

"I'm a doctor, I know what I need" she retorted in a no-nonsense tone. "And right now, I need to check his room."

"What for?" the weary DI sighed, clearly coming to the conclusion that he had better chances of winning against a volcano.

Joan gave a measuring glance to the comatose man being pulled out of the wreck. "His reasons."

 _ **# #**_

It took more wheedling on her part to persuade Lestrade to drive back to the first crime scene. Of course, Sherlock jumped in at the last minute, and spent the trip sulking in the backseat. The building was alit with blue flashing lights now, alive. Not minding her companions, Joan marched up to the nightmarish flat, bypassing curious neighbours and busy policemen. Repressing a cringe at the bloodied floor, she made a beeline to the VHS player. The tape was labelled in a blue faded ink " **mocking bird** ".

 _Damn. It really is **that** tape._

She absently tugged on latex gloves, thoroughly ignoring Sherlock's looming presence and Greg's worried one at her side. The telly flickered to live, and she pressed start.

"… see the price of your folly" thundered the deep voice from loudspeakers. Everyone in the room froze to look at the screen. Joan watched on, caught in a time loop.

The man, dressed in white robes, was choosing calmly his victim among the dozing prisoners on the ground. Suddenly Lestrade gasped in recognition, and Sherlock's hand was gripping her right shoulder. "John?..." His voice cracked. _Don't look_ , she wanted to scream.

She watched as the private, _Brian, his name was Brian, it was his first tour and he liked old jazz music_ , got killed, and once again she could do nothing to stop it. She watched as her counterpart from years ago tried to fight, and utterly failed. "Every act against us, is a slight against God. Retribution shall fall." She had unwillingly provoked them into killing another soldier, _Harry, he had just become a father, a little boy, he never got to hold him_. _Why didn't they kill me?_

Finally able to move, Joan paused the video and carefully ejected the tape. No need to show them the rest. Every pair of eyes in the room was glued to her, as she got up, the tape held loosely in her hands. "Call Mycroft, would you" she said softly, all fight and poison lost. "Someone from MI6 archives is selling classified items to the black market."

There was a tense, _so tense_ , silence. Then the sound of the Belstaff storming out of the room and echoes of the angry baritone shouting at the unfortunate government official.

 _Not over yet. Face it. Face them and get out._

Briefly closing her eyes, the ex-soldier turned around to find that Lestrade had cowed his subordinates to go do their job and stop ogling her without uttering a word. He looked angry, and tired, and a little lost. "Thanks" she whispered, just for him. He nodded, a frown settling on his brow.

"Is that when… you got shot?" he asked awkwardly.

"No." There was no need to hide it. "This was during my second tour. There was a rescue mission, obviously, and then I was back on the field in about a year."

Greg stared at her, appalled. "You went back?!"

"Yeah" she shrugged. The air became heavy, and she just wanted to get out, to go sleep. Sherlock swept back in, and stopped shortly at the door, giving them a measuring stare-down. Silently, he came to Joan's side, a steady hand settling on her shoulder, and gently guiding her out of the room, out of the building. The fresh air exploded in her lungs, and for a second the soldier thought there wouldn't be another breath. The comforting hand disappeared, leaving her frozen and alone, but then Sherlock simply pulled his trademark coat around her, popping up the collar so no bystander could catch a glimpse of her ashen face. It smelled of chemicals and expensive shampoo, of all things, and Joan felt like an impenetrable bubble had been erected between her and the world. _It feels nice._

She didn't stop to ponder when the self-proclaimed sociopath had become so considerate.

A black Mercedes slid to a halt at the curb. _Mycroft. Ah, yes, I asked for him._

The older Holmes wasn't inside (urgent business in Hungary, apparently), but his PA was there, in the same impeccable suit as on the day she met her.

Sherlock climbed in after her, glaring at all and sundry, looking one part pouty and three parts murderous. They rode in silence, Joan concentrating on the sound of the city, _London, rainy, noisy London_ , splashing against the steel carcass. The incessant typing from the PA stopped abruptly.

"I will take the tape" she said gently, and Joan's gaze flickered to her. The woman appeared unfazed, but her eyes were wary.

The ex-soldier didn't move an inch to give away her loot. "How did it get out in the first place?" she queried softly.

It was a very uncomfortable question, as the professional façade cracked, and the brunette fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. "It's under investigation, Doctor Watson. We will keep you informed." _No, you won't._

"Mycroft will have more than just me to worry about if it gets out again" she informed the woman, finally handing over the recording. If she never saw it again, it would be too soon.

The car dropped them off at Baker Street, and Sherlock resumed his self-appointed role of a nurse until they reached the flat. She dared a glance at the detective and managed a small chuckle. He was looking bemused, and more than a little panicked. _The man has no idea of what to do, ain't he?_

"Tea?" she asked, wincing at the hitch in her voice. He nodded hesitantly.

The routine of brewing tea was calming, therapeutic even. She particularly relished the slow burn on her fingertips from cups filled with boiling water, just at the limit of painful. It grounded her along with the smell Sherlock's shampoo. _Weirdo_ , a shy and fond voice echoed in her head.

Pushing the mug towards Sherlock, she could see the need for answers painted clearly on his face. _Too much._ "I can't talk about it, Sherlock" she sighed after a long sip of the brewage. He froze momentarily, like a toddler caught with his hand inside the cookie jar. "It's too much for me right now" she added for good measure. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes, and he tensed and relaxed at the same time. _He had probably thought I referred to his clearance level. As if it ever stopped me._ "Feel free to bother Mycroft, though." The glint in his eyes was very maniacal now. _Should I regret this?... No, probably not._

The earlier tiff was all but forgotten. Sherlock's presence was vital, necessary to keep away ghostly voices, _and that is as simple as this._ Joan meandered to the couch, clutching both her mug and Sherlock's coat around her. Going upstairs appeared a tedious and potentially dangerous affair. _Maybe ghosts are hidden in the closet. Just maybe._

She stayed there, sipping her lukewarm tea and staring at the wall, until a soft melody filled the flat, soothing her nerves and mending her heart. Sherlock wasn't looking at her as he played, sprawled in his armchair in a perfect embodiment of indifference, but every note he produced, every string he touched, were meant for her. She let herself drown in it, relaxing on the couch, unfinished tea on the coffee table. The melody twirled around, gentle, worried, understanding. Ghosts fled from it, unable to resist the bright colours of life it represented.

While her neck and back were loudly protesting her sleeping arrangements in the morning, no nightmare came to bother her rest that night.

 _ **# #**_

Sherlock left Baker Street around noon, after ensuring that his flatmate and friend was feeling good enough to occupy herself without his supervision. He caught a cab and rushed to Diogenes club, anger simmering under the cold veneer. It only grew when the doorman made him wait and reached new heights when his brother wasn't already waiting for him in the Strangers' Room.

Mycroft entered an hour later, dark smudges under his eyes he didn't bother to conceal, which didn't escape the younger Holmes' notice. "Long nights, brother mine?"

"Are you sure it is wise to leave John alone?" The question was condescending and infuriating, but Sherlock swallowed his anger in favour of obtaining information.

"Mrs Hudson takes care of her." They stared at each other in hostile silence. "I want to see that tape" Sherlock finally said, voice bearing no argument.

"That is not wise" Mycroft sighed, lowering himself into his chair.

"Pray tell why" the younger man hissed.

"Because, brother dear" - came the drawled response from behind steepled fingers – "the only thing you could do with that knowledge is making things worse." At the heated glare radiating from the opposite chair, he elaborated. "Your reaction would be devastating to the only person that bears to live with you. I am not quite ready to lose that asset yet."

"John is not an asset, Mycroft" Sherlock growled, leaning forward in his chair, like a feline ready to pounce on his pray. "She is under my protection, and she was hurt because of your minions. You **will** show me that tape."

"Don't you have enough on your plate to worry about?" The attempt at distraction was pathetically weak, and Sherlock knew that he had won. Mycroft sighed. "Fine… On your head, be it." A couple of clicks later, and a portion of the wall slid aside, revealing a flat screen. "I am not particularly fond of this footage, so you will excuse me, brother." Slowly extracting himself from behind the desk, the 'minor' government official gave Sherlock a hard stare before tossing a remote control at him. He left the room without another word.

Alone with his doubts and anger, Sherlock eyed the remote as if it could bite him. From the little clip they had all seen on the crime scene, he was sure that the experience would not be enjoyable. _John lived through it._ Jaw set in a stubborn line, Sherlock switched on the screen and fumbled to find the relevant file.

Forty minutes later, he was sitting stone-faced and in deep shock in the same chair, the screen projecting only static for some time already. It was not what he had expected. It was worse. The door opened silently, letting in Mycroft and his PA. They both looked at the unmoving detective with veiled pity. "Sherlock" the brother called out. A finger twitched in response. "I warned you." Another twitch.

When the older man was about to give up on getting a reaction, Sherlock spoke up in an emotionless tone: "What did you expect me to do, exactly? Rage and scream like some dramatic hero?"

"The thought had occurred" Mycroft replied, eyeing the detective's back calculatingly.

"I am no fool" the younger brother stated. He pushed himself up from the chair, adjusted the coat's collar and faced his little audience with a tense not-quite-a-smile. "She made sure of it." Without any further comments (but with a lot of flair and coat swirling), he left the room, thoughts flashing through his mind erratically.

 _Fact:_ _I am angry. Fact: I can't change what happened. Fact: John does not want pity._

 _Scenario assessment. Impact on self estimated. Retention of all faculties improbable._

 _Fact:_ _John is strong._

 _Suggested course of action… pending._

He didn't register the cab ride home, nor the following hours. The next thing he knew, he was seated in his chair, a steaming mug of excellent tea in his hands. Joan, looking a little peaky, was sipping her own tea while leafing through a medical journal, comfortably sprawled in the other chair. _Fact:_ _John didn't change her behaviour. Fact: John is good with people. Suggested course of action: Imitate._

"There are biscuits in the cupboard, if you want them" she said without looking up from her reading.

Sherlock gave the puzzling woman a long measuring look, before asking matter-of-factly: "Are there any scones?"

There was a fleeting smile on her lips. "Nah, but feel free to pester Mrs H for them. I'm sure there are still some left from the breakfast."

 _ **# #**_

Joan dropped the journal on her lap once Sherlock's light steps faded down the stairs. Her heart was beating like crazy. _Why is it so hard to act normal?_ She felt frozen to the bone, lonely, and confused. Though the only thought of someone crying or yelling over her plight made her hiss in disgust. _No pity. No more._ She had a good idea about where her flatmate disappeared to and what made him go 'off-line' for the afternoon. She also knew from the panicked look caught on his face last night that the man wouldn't fathom an adequate response to the whole situation. _I need normal. I need a routine to cling to. And I need it now._ So, she made tea, and pretended to read and to act generally unaware of anything important.

Her phone vibrated with an incoming message. " **Where are you?** " She pressed the heels of her hands against the eyes, before typing out a weary " **I'm fine.** "

The man on the other side of the text disagreed. " **I'm coming.** "

" **Don't you dare.** " He had gotten her out last time, but it had been late, too late for the others, the ones who kept blaming her for living on. _They would be oh so angry if he showed up again._ She still remembered vividly the feeling of falling into a puddle of someone else's blood. The ghosts promised to make her relive the experience for as long as they could.

" **You are not living through this alone ever again.** "

" **I'm not alone, Sev.** " She wasn't certain whether she meant the detective downstairs or her hallucinations. There were no further messages after that, and no worried old friends busting through doors or windows. _Small victories, huh._

Dry whispers of faded ghosts kept scratching at the back of her mind, but she pushed them away, like always. _I'm sorry. I can't come with you_ , she told them softly. They screamed their outrage. Until they calmed down and she recovered some more, sleeping pills would be much needed.

 _ **# #**_

 **Disclaimer 2:** The whole plot is inspired by 'Survivor's Guilt' by Aneeta Potter.

 **A/N:** And we're done with this part. It appears that I really like making Sherlock helplessly worry. Irene will be back for the next chapter. I apologize in advance if it takes months to update again... :(


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